Julia
by EverspringNative
Summary: Written from Julia's POV. Vignette's on Kire, then her side of the story from A Heart that Waits.
1. Perfection

This will be a series of vignettes told from Julia's POV starting with how she first met Erik face-to-face. Not sure how many of them I'm going to do or how often but I thought it would be fun to see everything through her eyes. I would love to know what you think!

Perfection

My bruises had not yet fully healed when I first saw him on the quiet streets.

Not once had I ever seen him in daylight, though in my mind I had painted a picture of him, a perfect portrait of a broad-shouldered composer, of a man who said more with a violin than my husband, Louis, ever cared to say to me.

In a way, I was in love with him. Ludicrous, I knew, but my life had long since lost its balance. My days were erratic, my nights spent wondering if Louis would come home in a foul mood or not at all. Yes, I hoped he would never return.

And now that I had my wish I felt no better off than before. I merely hoped I would feel something again.

Strange, I thought to myself, that this silhouette I had watched cautiously through my windows stirred me so, created longings I had otherwise suppressed. Was it foolish to be enamored by a man I knew nothing of—other than he had murdered my husband? That was my only concrete evidence that he existed. Until that moment he was only a voice and a note on the wind. He was a dream on the edge of my perception, never far away but not once close enough.

"You are wicked," I said to my reflection. Lisette was asleep in her bedroom, kissed and tucked in for the night, oblivious to her mother's unusual longings. My eyes pricked with tears I wanted to believe were for Louis, but they weren't. I hadn't mourned him, not as a loving wife should have grieved. But I wasn't his loving wife. I was a body he could take at will, a thing with not as much worth as a dog.

"Wicked, heartless woman," I whispered as I opened the jewelry box and stared at my forgotten ring. Somehow I managed to evade shedding a tear and closed my jewelry box. Rising to my feet, I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock.

He would be out for his walk soon. And so would I.

-o-

Weeks passed before Madame Giry would divulge that there was a man who lived in her house. Eventually she shrugged that her son occupied the top floor but little more was ever said and eventually I stopped asking. It wasn't proper for a married woman to ask such things, I knew, but I felt as though I knew him, this nameless, faceless musician. When Louis was away and I spent my evenings with Lisette and her dolls, I would leave the window open and listen to him play.

"Mama, who is that?" Lisette would inquire.

"Perhaps it is a ghost," I would tease her.

"Father wouldn't like it, would he?"

Her question broke my heart. "Do you like it?"

"Why, yes," she answered. With a smile she would return to her world of yarn-haired dolls, content that it was only the two of us and beautiful music weaving through the open windows.

I thought about those nights as I walked at a painfully slow pace down the street, wondering if my neighbors watched. This was insane, I said to myself. A woman such as myself—a woman forced to wear black and pretend I was anguished over the loss of my husband—chasing after such nonsense. What did I want with him? To thank him for killing Louis? To show my gratitude for the lonely nights when he had filled my bed with the sound of his voice and his violin?

Was it possible that I had gone mad? That seemed most feasible of all, as no self-respecting woman would take to the streets for a man she didn't know. But somehow I had convinced myself that I did know him through the careful glances I stole out the window at night. Though I could never confirm it, I had a feeling he watched me as well. No, I had confirmed it. If Madame Giry's son had not taken notice of me then I would still be a married woman.

With a sigh, I prepared to turn around and return home, as Lisette was still asleep and I would have been mortified if she woke up and thought I had left her. Though I was practically in front of the house, I was a nervous wreck. I was being selfish in attempting to see this man.

And then suddenly he rounded the corner. I knew it was him by his stature, as few people I knew were as tall as he, or as broad-shouldered. He didn't notice me—or hear my heart pounding -- for which I was suddenly grateful and equally appalled. All of this waiting and he didn't know I was there.

Until he glanced up and saw me standing no more than ten paces away. He froze and I froze, both of us startling one another.

My God, I thought when he looked up at me. He wears a mask. I quickly looked away so as not to stare. This was not as I had imagined. I'd thought of him as a man with sharp features, somewhat wolf-like in appearance. God knows why I had agonized over this. God knows why I had imagined a wolf!

"Good evening," I said at last.

"Madame," he said, his voice a deep rumble. Ah, there was that voice, that baritone that lulled me to sleep while Louis was visiting the women he preferred.

I had nothing prepared, no words rehearsed, though I suddenly realized that even if I had scripted our meeting it would have been in vain. I glanced up again. He was staring at me, his eyes light in color, stone-cold and piercing.

He seemed to expect me to walk away now that I realized he was injured or deformed. Incomplete? I wondered briefly. His gaze was striking, really, so filled with torment, daring me to make my excuses and walk away. Oh, I said to myself, Julia, get on with it. You've waited for this moment. Don't stand there like a useless rag doll!

"You are Madame Giry's son?" I asked before he walked away and left me standing there like a fool.

Our eyes met, his expression softening. It was difficult to look him in the eye and not because of the mask but because he appeared…abandoned. As though nothing I could say or do mattered to him, as though he had been protected—or unprotected—for so long that he had no desire to continue.

Perhaps he had lost a wife? I wondered. Is that why he lived with his mother and son in that beautiful house?

I was staring again.

He nodded once and flexed his hands. I could tell that he hadn't expected the conversation to continue, and truthfully, neither had I.

"She's very kind, your mother," I blurted out.

"She's home," he replied before glancing away.

I hadn't expected him to be a man of so few words. Nervously I shifted my weight.

"You are out this evening for a walk, I see."

"I am," he answered, taking a small but noticeable step away from the lunatic he had encountered on the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, one without much fuss. He'd most likely walked this way a thousand times and not once been accosted.

"You take your walks the same time each night," I commented.

He gave me a peculiar look, his eyes slightly narrowed. "When the weather holds, Madame," he answered. It was as much as I expected him to say to me. What a desperate, mad woman I must have appeared in that moment, attempting to converse with an obviously good-hearted Christian man out for his evening walk, not searching for a woman to bed.

"Then I won't keep you," I said, my voice trembling. There was no way in which I could humiliate myself a moment longer. "But perhaps one evening you'd care to come by after your walk."

Oh, hold your tongue! I silently scolded myself.

He appeared unfazed by my invitation. Perhaps he wasn't the good-hearted Christian I assumed.

"Your house?" he questioned, his voice a deep growl that sent prickles down my spine.

"Yes," I said, pointing at my dark residence. "There."

Of course he knew which one. I alarmed myself with my willingness to converse with him, though he didn't feel like a stranger to me, even when we stood face-to-face. I should have expected that this man I had never seen during the day would be so humble, so utterly reserved. And here I was, aggressive as a bear, practically lifting my skirt and knocking him onto the grass.

"When?" he asked.

"Whenever you'd like," I answered, feeling more desperate as the moments passed.

He nodded but said nothing more and suddenly I couldn't bear to hear him deny my request.

"Goodnight," I said awkwardly. "Monsieur Giry."

"Kire," he corrected.

"Pardon me?"

"Monsieur Kire," he answered. "Erik."

Ah, at last a name for this peculiar dream.

"Julia," I said. "Sueratti."

"I know."

With a nod, we parted ways. It would be a week before I saw him again, and then I would know what he truly wanted with a widow.


	2. The Second Encounter

Julia2

Madame Giry denied again that there was a man living in her house. She bristled at my questions and seemed quite taken aback when I said I had met her son the previous night. I hadn't realized she was so protective of him, sheltering him, it seemed.

"Erik Kire," I insisted as though my words would perhaps jar her memory.

As she and her daughter stood in their garden I saw movement through the upper window.

"He's not—"

"Mother," Meg whispered.

Meg was always reserved. I hoped to invite her into my home for tea one afternoon and inquire about her brother. However, because she and her mother were close, I imagined Meg would tell Madame that I had asked. It was all rather peculiar.

"I saw him while he took his walk. He's a very nice man, your son," I commented.

"You will be tardy for morning church services," Madame Giry snapped. "As a good Christian woman with a daughter to raise, I trust you will make haste."

There was nothing else to say. Excusing myself, I walked into my kitchen, feeling Erik keeping watch until I closed and locked the door.

A week after our first encounter I asked my neighbor, Camille, if she would stay with Lisette for a while. Old and deaf, she asked few questions and agreed to sit in the parlor until I returned.

"I will only be a moment," I said before I left, though I doubt she heard. Perhaps Lisette at the age of five was better off watching Camille.

Dressed in my black frock, I pulled a shawl tight around my shoulders and stepped outside. I had timed Monsieur Kire's walks so perfectly that I knew nearly down to the minute when he would turn the corner.

I don't remember the exact words we exchanged, as it didn't seem to matter. He declined my second invitation.

"I see," I replied, wringing my hands.

Without looking at me, Erik mumbled that he had too many compositions promised and could not expend his time elsewhere.

Not even for the company of a woman making herself readily available.

"Another time," I said, knowing there would not be another time. He'd refused my invitation twice now, making his intentions perfectly clear.

"Yes," he answered. "Another time, Madame Seuratti. My apologies," he said with a tip of his hat. I was beginning to wonder if he were mocking me in his arrogance.

With a shrug, I turned away. "If I should see you again," I replied over my shoulder and left him on the street, feeling somewhat brighter about my position. Even if it was only for the moment I felt powerful, as though this relationship—or lack there of—was my decision.

My choice took months to cultivate into something concrete. I walked past my windows and looked for him, and when I saw the light on in his room, I would often see him glance outside. This was how we communicated, risking glances but nothing more. Our safety lay in the distance between his home and mine. I was beginning to think it would always be this way.

In late October—five months nearly to the day of when we first met—Erik finally agreed to spending an evening in my home. I admit it took more than a little coaxing on my part, and the poor man appeared frightened to death when I approached him yet again.

"How are you?" I asked.

He nodded, his head bowed, his face hidden. "It's cold."

"It is October," I replied, which garnered his attention. Suddenly I felt rude and I shifted uncomfortably, looking away from his white-masked face and piercing gaze. With a forced chuckle, I added, "It's normally cold in October."

From the corner of my eye I saw him nod and I turned to face him. We stared at one another. His eyes appeared red, his lips a thin, straight line. This was not the same man I had encountered five months ago. That man was reserved but quiet, this man looked exhausted. For a man of his height he was terribly thin.

"Are you under the weather?" I asked.

Another silent nod. It was a form of torture that he wouldn't now entertain me with his voice, as he had unknowingly done for years.

"I could make you some tea," I offered, my heart leaping into my throat.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he said. Even his voice, which was always deep and rich, sounded fatigued.

My heart sank. Another day of waiting. Another day for another excuse. I didn't understand why I needed this so much and why he continued to hold off another moment. Most men would have nodded and eagerly followed me to my door, no questions asked. However, with Lisette inside and my elderly neighbor undoubtedly peering through the window at us, perhaps it was for the best.

"Alexandre is not well," he said. He released a heavy sigh. "My son."

"Yes, I've seen him many times. He's very handsome."

Again he stared at me, though this time with a different expression at the mention of his son.

"Nothing serious, I hope."

Alex had played with Lisette on several occasions. He was quite animated, his arms and mouth constantly moving. With such long eyelashes and a pleasant smile he looked like a doll, a perfect little angel. God knows what could have plagued this child. I had no idea whether his mother had died while she gave birth to him or if she had passed away some time later. Secretly I wondered if perhaps October the 21st was an anniversary. Erik looked as though he weren't so much sick as in mourning.

"A slight fever," Erik answered. "He should be fine by tomorrow evening."

"Oh, good. Nothing is more upsetting than a sick child," I replied. "What time would you like to come over? If, of course, Alexandre is feeling well."

He stared at me a moment. "I walk the same time each night," he replied.

Yes, I knew this well. At a quarter to midnight he rounded the corner on his way home.

"Your yard connects to mine. If you come through the fence I will you meet you in the garden. Is that acceptable?"

By his expression he didn't appear overly anxious regarding my invitation. In fact, it seemed he thought my request was quite common, which alarmed me, as I was not a woman who made a habit of inviting men into my home in the middle of the night. I wanted to correct his insinuations, but he didn't allow me the opportunity.

He nodded one last time. "Good night, Madame," Erik said before he tipped his hat, turned and walked away.

-o-

Prior to Erik's arrival I was beside myself. One moment I was elated, the next terrified because I was inviting a stranger into my home. Yet no more a stranger than Louis, I thought to myself as I tucked Lisette into bed. If he'd wanted us dead he would have claimed all of our lives that night, yet he had not.

I wondered why.

As I kissed Lissy goodnight I swore I saw a thousand questions in her eyes. I felt guilty, but I wanted something just for myself. Perhaps in a week or in a year I would be ashamed of myself, but for this night I had only one quest. Or rather, one conquest. I wanted to know what his hands felt like beneath those black gloves. Were they as skilled on a woman's body as they were on a violin? What would his voice sound like when he asked if I would be more comfortable elsewhere?

I brushed my hair and looked in the mirror. Would he be the first man who made love to me, I wondered? My fingers trailed down my neck and traced the memories of where Louis had held me by the throat. For a long time I sat and stared at my reflection, wondering if tonight would lead me from one dark dream to another, or if I would finally wake at peace.

"A tryst," I murmured to myself. "Only a tryst."

It would be easier this way. This was a man concerned about his son and his music. He wasn't dedicating himself to a woman, at least not for longer than an evening. It was as though I craved him, needing a mere taste before I could close the box of sweets and walk away.

No, I wasn't able to fool myself completely. I knew that I would keep this box open until there was nothing remaining inside. I was merely tormenting myself into believing otherwise.

When Erik finally arrived—an hour late, no less—I mustered my courage and went to the door. He was a man of few words. Perhaps he would allow his passion to speak on his behalf.

"I made crumpets," I said as I showed him into the parlor.

As I expected, he merely nodded.


	3. Crumpets

These are fun. I hope you're all enjoying them.

Julia3

The crumpets were my blessing and my downfall.

Erik stepped into my home and glanced around. "I see," he said. He looked at me then and the lust I expected to find was nonexistent. I realized he was waiting for me to take his coat and hat.

"Forgive me," I mumbled.

"Of course," he mumbled in return as he waited for me to walk him…where was I taking him? Now that he had arrived I couldn't bear to suggest that we immediately retire to my bedroom. I couldn't be at all certain, but by the look on his face—of which I could only see half—there was no expectation of anything other than tea.

I couldn't decide if I should be relieved or disappointed.

"I'll show you to the parlor before I bring out the tea," I said, nearly tripping on my skirt as I showed him down the hall.

He followed in silence. It was starting to unnerve me that he said so little, as that meant that I needed to fill the silence with my own words and I hadn't a thing to say. In my dreams—or rather, my delusions—we would sit for hours and laugh and discuss his music. He would offer to play something he'd never played for anyone before. I would have him bewitched as I ran my fingers along my silver necklace, the antique my mother had given me before aluminum had become so popular. He would study the curve of my neck, enjoy the sound of my laughter.

How these flirtations would carry us into my bedroom I had no idea, but somehow I always imagined this nameless, faceless entity would whisk me into my room and kiss me fiercely, his tongue flicking against my neck, his hands exploring my womanly form.

And now that he was here we merely stared at one another.

"If you will excuse me a moment," I said as I disappeared into the hall and fixed my hair. It would have been much simpler if I had told him outright what I expected. Perhaps then he would have shown up at my door on time. Or perhaps not at all.

When I returned a moment later with our tea I was startled to find the chairs had been moved. I stood in the doorway, the weight of the tray increasing with each passing second, and blinked at him. The room was darker as well, which caught me off guard. I wouldn't have noticed him at first had it not been for the stark whiteness of his mask.

Setting the tray down, I moved my chair closer to his and then poured tea. There was darkness that provided an intimate setting and there was darkness that made it impossible to see. He may as well have turned off the light completely.

"Careful, it's quite hot," I said as I handed him his cup. "You may wish to let it sit a moment or two."

"I feel it," he answered.

The sound of his voice made me blush. I was suddenly glad for the darkness.

"How is Alexandre?" I asked.

"Better," he answered.

"Did the doctor pay him a visit?"

"It was unnecessary. He was fine this morning."

His tone was unduly harsh, for which he made no apologies.

"I was worried about him. I thought perhaps that was the reason you were late tonight," I said as I leaned over and turned up the lamp.

His eyes were fixed on my face. Somber is how I would describe his expression, as though he could have been staring at a painting on the wall that he felt indifferent toward. And yet I sensed that he wasn't entirely apathetic, that his expression masked the same awkward feelings I so blatantly left raw and exposed.

He turned and sipped his tea, and though it was hot enough to burn his throat, he swallowed it and set his cup down, inhaling sharply.

I didn't know what to say. I had told him only a moment ago that the tea was hot and he had said that he felt it.

"May I ask what the title of your next opera is?" I questioned at last.

"Untitled thus far," he answered.

"Oh." Naturally, I thought. Why would it have a title? Why was I insisting on continuing this night when it was clearly a disaster?

"Do you play an instrument?" he asked.

His question took me by surprise. We stared at one another for a moment before he started to reach for his tea. His mouth was going to be one big blister if I didn't answer him at once.

"No, unfortunately, I don't seem to have much talent when it comes to music."

"Do you sing?" he asked, sitting forward slightly.

"I sew," I answered proudly.

Erik sat back, his shoulders slumping. "Costumes?"

"Dresses for my daughter, mostly, but I've made all sorts of shirts, coats, trousers, skirts…I do repairs as well."

"I have a tailor," he said under his breath.

"Oh, I wasn't attempting to make a business arrangement," I stammered. I wanted a much different arrangement, one without the necessity of the clothes I sewed.

"What are crumpets?" he asked suddenly.

My eyes widened. I had forgotten the crumpets in the kitchen.

"If you'll excuse me," I said, rising to my feet.

He watched me leave. Before I was halfway down the hall I heard his chair scrape against the wall. I had a feeling when I returned that the lights would be dimmed once more.

I was correct.

"Are your eyes sensitive to the light?" I questioned.

"No," he answered. He lowered his head, and as I reached to turn up the light once more I saw his right hand shield his face.

I regretted turning the light up, as I realized it wasn't bothering his eyes. He was hiding the mask and what lay beneath.

My husband was a proud man with intense eyes. He dared people to look at him, to offer him a challenge. To sit before a man whose eyes were a soft, pale green and whose mannerisms were gentle intrigued me.

Suddenly I wanted to know a great deal more about this man who sat before me.

"Here," I said, offering him the plate. "I insist that you try one."

"They're muffins."

"No, they're crumpets," I corrected.

"But they look exactly like muffins. I don't care for muffins."

"Muffins are usually dry. These are moist." At least, I thought, when I made them.

He appeared skeptical but took one nonetheless. Within minutes he'd taken a second. After a half hour of more forced conversation he'd consumed three of the five I had made.

"These are good," he said, sounding horrendously surprised. If it had been any other man I would have been insulted, but from what I gathered of Erik Kire thus far, I assumed he rarely offered compliments.

"You like them?" I questioned.

He nodded and took his fourth crumpet. I believe we found our common bond through my crumpets and his stomach.

Erik stayed for an hour, his full belly unraveling his knotted tongue enough to make for a pleasant evening. We remained seated at a distance, our gazes rarely meeting. Whenever he paused it was to sip his tea or take another bite.

"Do you have a sweet tooth?" I asked when I finally led him to the front door.

"Not at all," he answered gruffly.

"Madame Giry has mentioned that Alexandre has an affinity for sweets. I merely wondered if that was a trait he inherited from you."

"From me?" he questioned. His lips parted and he glanced away, nodding at last. Judging by his expression it appeared as though he'd never considered his son's preferences coming from him.

"He adores you," I said. My hand clutched the doorknob but I didn't open it. I was waiting for him to step nearer, to brush a kiss past my lips. He did no such thing.

"Thank you," he said. I'd never heard anyone speak with such sincerity. He smiled slightly, the melancholy in his eyes never fading.

"I do hope you will stop by again after your walk," I said, my heart pounding so hard I was surprised I could utter a word.

"For crumpets?" he questioned.

I smiled, completely enamored by his gentlemanly demeanor. "If that is the reason behind your visits."

He gave me a strange look and I blushed profusely, feeling as though my face were about to catch on fire at my suggestive words.

"You invited me," he said, his voice stern and accusing.

"Yes," I answered. "For tea and crumpets. It has been a pleasure, Monsieur Kire. I look forward to your company again."

And, I mused to myself as I walked him out, perhaps more if I forgot to bake one night. What a wild and wicked woman I had become, seducing a perfectly innocent and respectable man with honeyed crumpets! What would I do next, I wondered? Fatten him like a hog and bring him to my bed.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night, Madame," Erik said before he turned and walked away.


	4. Tragedy and Horror

Julia4

I had told Erik the night before that if he found it more convenient he could walk through the back door, as his garden connected to my modest plot of grass. He seemed to like this idea, as it was more private than walking around the block. Therefore, it should not have come as a surprise that I found him standing in the middle of my kitchen with his cape over one arm and his hat tightly grasped in his hand. He was wearing a mask that covered his upper face down to his lips. I'd never seen him wear it before.

"How far do you walk each evening?" I asked Erik. He was late yet again.

"Very far," he answered.

"I see."

"Three hours. I've never taken the distance into consideration."

My eyes widened. No wonder he was so thin. "You walk for three hours a night?"

"Sometimes," he replied. He seemed distracted.

I don't know what possessed me to ask him if he would like to come upstairs. It was not a rational question, I knew, and the moment the words left my mouth I stood paralyzed. I hadn't known Louis the first time we were intimate. Suddenly I didn't want another stranger in my bed.

"The parlor is suitable," Erik muttered.

"Of course."

I wasn't sure if he was being polite or if he didn't comprehend what I was asking. I didn't understand what I was asking.

"I made pear tarts," I said. "Would you like some?"

"No, I'm not hungry. I'm afraid I shall never eat again."

This was the man who had consumed four crumpets. How could he possibly refuse a pear tart or two?

"Is something wrong?" I questioned.

"Yes," he said. He didn't look at me when he spoke. His mouth twisted, the only part of his face I could see thanks to his mask.

"Then by all means let's sit in the parlor."

We talked until dawn, the silent man who had come into my home several times before suddenly replaced by an agonized, gregarious man. He sat his chair close to mine, his eyes flickering up to meet my gaze as he spoke. I'd never seen such melancholy before, such utter loss of hope. Yet still I had no idea who he was speaking of, as he only said Suzette. At first I suspected he was mourning the death of his wife.

I barely said a word for the first hour as he rambled—sometimes incoherently—until I asked whom he had lost.

"A neighbor?" I asked, having no idea what child he was so concerned about, as I had seen his son that afternoon and suspected Madame Giry would have come to my door if something had happened to Alex.

"My son's half-sister," he said at last. "Suzette. She passed away in Africa."

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"It is Christine's loss, not mine," he said blankly. "And yet I feel as though I have lost something precious."

"Christine? Your wife?"

She was alive? I wondered. Perhaps they had divorced or she left him after he received his facial injuries. Instantly I didn't care for her.

"We were never married," he said under his breath. "She has a husband now, though I cannot recall his name."

"This is terrible news," I said, reaching out to him, feeling his devastation. I placed my hand over his and squeezed gently. His flesh was cold, his hand balled so tightly into a fist that there was no blood circulating through his fingers.

He inhaled sharply when I touched him, his gaze fixed on my hand. At first he tensed, but I felt him slowly settle, his breaths even once more, his lips becoming fuller, his jaw no longer clamped shut. If I hadn't known of his son, I would have assumed he'd never touched a woman, as his reaction was one of sheer astonishment. It must have been a long time since he and his son's mother, Christine, had been together.

"I have written her a requiem," he said at last as he pulled his hand free of mine and sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes. "I cannot imagine what I would do if Alex passed away. I could not live."

"I understand. I feel the same way about Lisette."

"He is all that I have," Erik continued.

I nodded even though he didn't look at me. "You are a very loving father, Erik," I said gently. "Your own father must have treated you well."

His eyes opened and stared at me, briefly, but cold and hard nonetheless. He didn't say a word, but I sensed that I was mistaken. His right hand rose and gently touched his mask.

It was almost dawn when Erik looked at me suddenly and realized the hour.

"I've disrupted far too much of your time," he said as he climbed to his feet.

"There was no disruption," I blurted out as I led him to the back door.

He said nothing, the pensive man once again returning.

Erik left through the back door without another word. I watched him pass through the gate and disappear just as the sun began to rise in a fiery dawn.

Fire.

I held my breath, the exhaustion of staying up all night bringing clarity. A composer. Christine. There had once been a young soprano named Christine. I remembered the article in the paper. If I was correct, it was with Louis' books and old papers.

After locking the back door, I found myself digging into the guestroom closet until I found the old papers, edges wrinkled, the text smeared in several places from water damage and time.

But it was still there, the strange, glorified affair of The Phantom of the Opera Populaire. A masked man escaped, thought to be dead, the paper explained. The young soprano missing. She was to marry a Vicomte, a man I'd vaguely remembered hearing of before.

The gruesome details were there before my eyes of a man with a skeletal face, with decaying arms and hands. No flesh, the writer claims, merely bone. A corpse, a living corpse. Heartless. Calculating. A terror that should not be allowed to live—a phantom who lived and breathed blood and cared nothing for others.

The article angered me and it had nothing to do with the tragedy surrounding the soprano. This man was not a living corpse. He was living, breathing…feeling. He was very much real, very much affected by tragedy. Not a heartless ghost.

Surely, these were not the same people. If so, surely something had changed. This was a tragedy, I said to myself, not a horror, and I had willingly placed myself in the middle.


	5. Highly Irritated

NDBRs: There were a few changes at the very end.

Julia5

Two weeks passed before I saw Erik again, which allowed me plenty of time cooking and cleaning to mull over the man I decided to chase about like a desperate, mad woman. The newspaper, which I no longer cared to possess in my home, was promptly thrown away. However, the words had already saturated my mind quite thoroughly. They merely failed to affect my stubborn heart.

Erik's walks had stopped—or perhaps he decided to leave his house at different hours. Whatever the case, the next time I saw him was on a dreadfully cold and rainy night. I almost didn't hear him tapping on the back door.

"You're soaked to the bone," I said as his cape dripped on my kitchen floor.

His teeth were chattering but he shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Here, I'll hang up your wet garments. My goodness, sir, it's as though you walked to China and back again," I muttered as I tugged his cape loose from his grasp. The stubborn man was not about to give up his wet outer garments.

"Merely down the street," he grumbled.

"It must be raining awfully hard for your clothes to be this wet."

"Possibly."

I attempted to keep a straight face. A surly man if there ever was one, I thought to myself.

"Stay here. I'll bring you some towels so that you may dry yourself."

He stood with his head bowed and his hand keeping his mask in place. He had decided upon a mask that only covered the right side of his face, which allowed me to see his impatient expression.

"How have you been?" I asked as he brushed the towel down his sleeves.

"Highly irritated," he huffed.

What does one say to such an answer? I couldn't think of anything. I stood staring at him with an armful of dry towels and my blouse dampened from taking his cape.

"Luc Testan is an ignorant fool," Erik growled.

Again, I said nothing. Luc Testan was a music critic. He was also my uncle.

Once Erik realized I hadn't said a word he stood a little straighter. "Good night," he said under his breath as he turned to leave.

"You've only just arrived."

"Indeed."

"You don't have your cape," I pointed out, quite sensibly.

He paused, still shivering.

"Tea will warm you," I said. "As will sitting by the fire until your cape dries."

I thought for certain that Erik would request his cape and leave, as he seemed in no mood for conversation—or company. Much to my surprise, he grumbled that he hated English tea as I followed him with a tray of hot water, tea, and honey.

"Do you know Luc Testan?" I questioned as we sat together.

"Fortunately, no," he said as he furiously added a third spoonful of honey to his tea.

I chuckled to myself and Erik stopped stirring and stared at me, his jaw set in a scowl as though my outburst offended him.

"I assume he discredited your music?"

Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of newspaper and waved it at me.

"Garbage," he said through his teeth. "Refuse."

"May I see it?" I asked.

"My opera?"

"The article," I replied. "Unless you happen to have a copy of your opera as well."

Glowering, he handed me the article he had apparently ripped from the newspaper and then turned away, completely disgusted by the contents. "Utter, irritating nonsense," he huffed.

I grunted, skimming over my uncle's words. A phrase here or there struck me as terribly dramatic and laughably cynical. Oh, if only these two could meet in person, what with my uncle and his bull-headed ways and poor Erik, the sensitive and highly irritable artist.

"Hmm," I said at last. "Yes, he didn't appear to appreciate one aspect of it, did he?"

"'One would be better off spending the night digging a hole in the ground than seeing Monsieur Kire's latest attempt at artistry'," Erik quoted through his teeth.

"Oh, my," I said under my breath. No wonder he was angered.

Snatching the paper, which I had set on the tray, he returned it to his pocket and shook his head. "Imbecile."

I wisely decided to change the subject. "How is Alexandre? I haven't seen him since the weather started to change."

It took only a moment for his gaze to soften. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, wan, but a smile nonetheless.

"He is well."

"And Meg? I heard Monsieur Lowry was paying her a visit. He's very handsome," I commented. "Very graceful, I should say. Meg has said he's a marvelous dancer."

Erik shrugged and grunted, apparently having no opinion of his sister's suitor. Poor Meg was frightened to death, as Monsieur Lowry was touring Africa for six months, the last of his duties in the army. He'd suffered an injury to his back during the Franco-Prussian War, one that left him with numbness in his right leg. In secret Meg had confided in me that they were to wed and settle in New York. It was Meg's dream to move to New York.

She had no idea that from Africa he would be sent to southern China. The Sino-French War destroyed their dreams of dancing at their wedding.

Truthfully, I wasn't certain if Madame Giry had adopted Erik or if he and Meg were half-siblings. I stayed quiet for a moment and as I contemplated asking. Something had to be a more welcomed subject than the atrocity in the paper.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He didn't need to answer. He sat up a little straighter, his hands flexing in his lap. In his mind I knew he wanted to ask what I had prepared, what sweets were in the kitchen.

"I'm hardly starving," he bristled.

"Good. I only made a dozen crumpets this afternoon. Shall I bring you the whole plate?"

He couldn't decide if he should be insulted and risk losing his crumpets or if he should nod and consider himself fortunate. With a frown, he said he only wanted two. I walked to the kitchen and placed three on his plate. When I returned, he hid his smile with a cough and a sip of his tea.

Yes, Monsieur, I wanted to tell him. Your mask may only hide so much. Allow me another day, another week of your time and I shall see far beyond the shield you wear. I wanted him to put down his guard and I wanted him to remove my reservations as well.

The night reminded me of standing by the ocean with my father when I was a child. I was terrified of the ocean's roar, of the crashing waves and misshapen rocks. With a sigh, my father went to sit with my mother and I was left alone. Mustering my courage, I stepped across the sand and allowed the waves to lap at my toes. The cold I feared became comfortable, the rocks I thought would stab the bottom of my feet, smooth and non-threatening. The ferocious sea was not something I could ever tame, but if only for a day I understood its power and respected that the water, so dark, so frightful, gently allowed me in. It tugged at my dress, pulled sand over my toes, but it allowed me to stay.

"How are the crumpets?" I asked Erik.

"Sweet," he answered. "Sweeter than before."

I was well aware of our mating dance, the subtle pull of his stubbornness and the strum of my sensibility grating on his nerves. For all of his huffing and puffing, he was a charming man who hadn't the slightest idea of how his gruff answers only made him more endearing to me. I felt as though I were his equal, as though I were not merely an object for him to use when the mood struck, but a living, breathing, feeling human being. He had come to my home to show me the paper, sharing not his anger, but his emotions.

To hell with what the paper had claimed five years ago, I thought as we sat together, chatting comfortably about nothing in particular. He was still muttering about my uncle. I could never tell him that Luc Testan was my uncle after such an insulting review.

But for all of his anger I saw a passionate man, one whose only outlet for emotion was his music.

It would be two more months before Erik's passion found an entirely different outlet.


	6. An Artist's Hands

Someone said they wanted longer chapters. This is huge. Also, warning of sexual situations in which Madame Julia holds nothing back.

Julia6

My mother had passed away four days after Christmas. Years had passed since her death, but each 29th of December I toasted her with a glass of pinot, her favorite wine.

Being my first Christmas with only my daughter as company, I drank two glasses and felt quite sorry for myself. I wondered what Erik was doing in his home, as he hadn't said much about the holiday. Our visits together were frequent—sometimes three nights a week—and the more I saw of him the more comfortable I became in his presence.

Each time he walked through the back door I remembered how Louis would grab me by the shoulders and shake me…often much worse. When Erik's hands moved it was in expression, not in threat. I knew that when something agitated him I would not receive his anger through his fist—unless he was shaking Luc Testan's latest insult at me.

When Erik took his seat in the parlor, I savored the rumble of his voice, the richness of his tone when he discussed his latest work.

"Your cheeks are red," Erik commented as he stomped snow from his shoes.

I touched my face, feeling the heat of wine in my cheeks. Before I could reply, he handed me a plate covered with a handkerchief.

"These are from Madeline," he said with a frown.

I uncovered the plate and found cross-shaped cookies, the ideal guilt covered in sugar. Beneath the cookies and heavily stained from lard, was a note that I didn't bother to read. Though I knew she had our best intentions at heart, Madame Giry desperately wanted Erik to cease his visits to my home. Each time she looked at me I saw the accusations. If only she knew that her son wanted my crumpets and nothing more.

But perhaps she knew what I wanted.

Now that we had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, I was accustomed to Erik handing me his cape and walking straight to the parlor, knowing that tea and cookies or pastries would follow. Therefore it surprised me that he was still wearing his cape and hat. He stared at me, his half-mask revealing an expression of uncertainty.

"Were you returning home?" I asked.

"Pardon me?"

"I wasn't certain if you were merely delivering cookies from Madame Giry," I replied.

He snorted. "I haven't the inclination to do her bidding," he said before he finally removed his hat.

I was not drunk on wine, as I can recall everything clearly, but I was clumsy. Reaching for his hat, I hit his wrist and he lost his grip. We both reached for his hat as though its touching the ground would be a great travesty. In the process I nearly hit him in the jaw with the top of my head. Instead, I hit him in the chest, managing not only to drop his hat but also step on it.

I started to kneel, but Erik caught me, apparently fearful that I had lost my balance.

"Your hat," I mumbled. "It's ruined."

His answer was a sharp inhale. I felt him exhale against the top of my head and thought, _"My God, he is smelling me." _

Perhaps I was drunk after all.

Slowly I straightened and felt him bracing me still, long after I was in danger of collapsing. He turned me away from him, so that my back was against his chest. My danger was now something completely different, completely welcomed. I swallowed and inhaled as well, smelling his freshly shaved skin and the faint scent of wood smoke and ink.

"You've been writing music, haven't you?" I mumbled.

"I have," he answered softly. His hand pressed against my belly. I could barely breathe.

And there he held me; I was completely transfixed, unwilling to move. I could feel him breathing faster, hot and tantalizing along the back of my neck. His lips brushed past the baby-fine hairs on the nape of my neck and I wondered if his actions were intentional.

I very much wanted them to be.

"Madame," he breathed in my ear, his lips so soft, so warm against my flesh.

"Monsieur?" I whispered.

I felt him swallow, his hand against my belly holding me tighter.

"I should return home," he said. His voice had turned deeper, huskier. My eyes fluttered shut, my head rolling back until it touched his shoulder. "It's late."

"It is," I said. "But no later than usual."

"Indeed," he said softly.

I froze, waited, hoped for something more, something complete. I no longer wanted to guess his intentions. I wanted to know his feelings. The wine urged my tongue to ask him.

"Julia," he whispered. He'd never said my first name before. Perhaps he had and I didn't recall. The wine made me warm from the inside out and all I knew for certain was that the fire in my belly was not yet hot enough.

He kissed me on the back of my neck and a groan escaped past his lips that sent me into a whirlwind of fire and fear. At first his caress was gentle, tentative, but I encouraged him further. Yes, I gave him a small plea, commanded him to do it again. Reaching up, I touched the left side of his face and allowed my fingertips to drag against his lips. His hips pressed to my lower back and I felt him there—all of him. He was feeling me as well. I was so lost in my desire for his caress against the back of my neck that I didn't realize his hand had cupped my breast. My eyes closed tighter, my breath caught in my throat.

"Sweet little woman," he whispered against my ear. I felt his tongue, I thought, or was it his breath? Whatever it was, I wanted to feel it again along my neck and face.

My God. If he kissed me again we would never stop.

"Kiss me," I whispered.

And he did. Lips and tongue against my throat, his hand caught in my hair, the other still holding the fullness of my breast. He took his time, made a gentle path while my all too-willing flesh surrendered beneath his lips.

He gave me his utmost attention, his unwavering time and affection. When he saw how I reacted to his touch, however, his breaths grew harsher, his actions more steady. His hands trembled against my ribs as I turned to face him, his nervousness voiced in barely audible apologies as he kissed my neck and pressed his hand to the small of my back.

I tilted my head, giving him full access to my lips, but he never kissed my face. I attempted to kiss his cheek and lips but he turned away.

"I—" he started, but said nothing more. He exhaled against my shoulder, so hard that I thought he would sob. My arms wrapped around him and I felt him tense. It was then that I knew for certain the injuries to his face would affect him far more than they would ever affect me.

"Upstairs," I said, ignoring the plague of insecurities. Yet another command, another plea for his utmost attention.

He stared at me, his eyes wider, his lips thinner.

"To your room?" he asked.

I nodded.

He seemed shocked. He blinked at me, yet squeezed me tighter.

"For tea?" he asked cautiously.

It made me want to weep that he could not believe my unasked question. He was a terribly injured man, more inside than out, I assumed. I wondered what had happened between him and Alexandre's mother. How could a man of such passion for music and compassion for his child, be so oblivious to my desires?

I ran my palm against his chest. "Do you want me to tell you why I would like you to come upstairs?" I whispered, unable to look him in the eye. I would tell him—the wine would see to that—but I couldn't be so bold as to look him in the eye.

"I dare not be presumptuous," he murmured in my ear, risking another kiss to my earlobe.

"Perhaps, if only this once, you should presume," I answered coyly.

Erik's hips pressed to mine. I wasn't sure if it was meant as a warning or a promise that his desires needed to be sated at once or forever denied.

I heard him swallow hard before he kissed the top of my head. "Are you absolutely certain?" he whispered.

"Yes," I said, my voice strong, my hand pressed firmly over his heart. I had been certain for quite some time. "Yes, I'm quite certain."

His hand clutched my arm and I felt him nod. He held onto me as we walked up the stairs and I led him into my room.

He paused in the doorway and released my arm in favor of holding onto the wooden frame. I turned and studied him, his long legs and arms, slender hips, broad shoulders. His head was at an angle, the mask unseen by my eyes.

Now that we had known each other for several months I didn't think of him in terms of a man who wore a mask. I thought of him as a composer, a connoisseur of desserts, and a very reserved gentleman—and I dare say I often thought of him as highly irritated.

A very familiar man stood at the threshold of my bedroom door and my every desire. It was then that I felt nervous.

"Well," I said with a sigh as I fumbled with my necklace. My cousin Anthony had sent it to me, the only present I received for Christmas. He had labeled it as from Lisette, which made me cry.

Erik's gaze lifted to meet mine. Releasing the doorframe, he walked to the end of the bed and studied the coverlet.

"Your room is very organized," he commented.

I turned to face him, still struggling with the clasp. My hands were trembling so badly that I was afraid I would break it.

"Thank you," I said. My face burned with the onset of a blush. "Would you…mind?" I asked, lifting the clasp from the back of my neck.

It took a moment for my words to register, but once he realized what I had asked, Erik strode to my side and placed his hand on my shoulder. His knuckles brushed against the back of my neck as he removed the necklace, his breaths, rolling and hot against my flesh.

He kissed me again on the tender spot against the back of my neck, inhaling my scent, releasing his heat. I leaned into him, lifting my hand to once again settle it against his face.

Erik caught me by the wrist just as my fingers grazed his jaw. We remained suspended for a moment, my back against his chest, his face against my neck, my wrist caught in his grasp. I refused to move, as I had no idea what his intentions were or what he was thinking. I couldn't see his expression, gauge his feelings.

His hand trembled as he lifted his head and pressed his lips to the palm of my hand, then the tip of my thumb. I swallowed hard as he lowered my hand to my side.

I needed to touch him, and so I tried once more to bring my hand to his face. Again he grabbed me by the wrist.

"Madame," he said firmly.

A single word stayed me. With a nod, I turned to face him and placed my hand on his shoulder, daring to caress his ear.

"Turn away," he whispered.

I stole a glance, saw the distance in his eyes.

"Why?" I whispered back.

He didn't answer me. If I had been older—thirty-three instead of twenty-three years—perhaps I would have taken him by the hand and questioned him. I doubted, however, that no matter my age, my actions would have threatened him and he would have walked away that night.

It would be years before I understood his fears, his reasoning behind asking me to turn from him. I would spend years attempting to undo the knot Christine had tied in his mind, the worthlessness he felt in himself.

Too young, too naïve, and too stubborn to do differently, I didn't argue with him, and didn't wait for an answer. I needed to selfishly experience this night with him, to finally feel something warm against my flesh, to know another heart could beat with mine. He watched, his lips parted, as I removed his cravat and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Gripping my hips, he swallowed, murmured something under his breath as I helped him from his overcoat and waistcoat.

Feral aggression pulsed through his veins then and he pulled me closer, threaded his hands through my hair and pulled my head back to expose my throat. Tender kisses turned to passionate caresses so filled with desire it was as though he had never fondled a woman before and this moment was his chance to do everything perfectly.

"Your hair smells like sandalwood," he murmured against my shoulder.

"Thank you," I whispered, though it was more a statement rather than a compliment.

His groans were stifled against my neck and shoulder as he fumbled with my blouse, his fingers daring to explore beneath my clothing. Neither of us made apologies as we tugged at buttons, pulled at sleeves. We mutually dragged each other to my bed and collapsed together, his hand behind my back, his legs between mine.

I could barely breathe when he looked me in the eye briefly before his gaze greedily trailed down my face to my neck and chest. The look in his eye transfixed me and I lay beneath him, holding his upper arm where his shirt hung only partially removed.

Leaning on his arm, he shifted his weight and slowly circled the tip of my breast with his fingertip. My back instantly arched, the sensation creating a curl of desire low in my belly. I felt my nipple tighten, knot; my breath left my lungs in one harsh exhale. Erik's face lowered, his lips parting. He kissed my hardened, blushing red peak, softly at first, then with greater urgency. His teeth grazed against me, his tongue swirling, hot and welcomed.

"You're shivering," he murmured as his lips trailed kisses from one breast to the next.

"It's a good shiver," I panted.

I was already breathless when he buried his face against my left shoulder and dragged his fingers along my belly. I sucked in a breath, immediately conscious of the marks a ten-pound infant had left on my stomach. Was there a more imperfect creature on the earth? I couldn't imagine one.

Either Erik didn't care or didn't realize my discomfort in him touching my soft, imperfect belly. He left no moment open for reconsideration as his hand delved lower.

We both moaned; me in pleasure, Erik in wonder. My thighs parted on their own to the sensation of his fingers discovering my womanhood. I gasped, realizing that it was the first time I hadn't needed oil to prepare myself. My body was more than willing to accept Erik's, and in that realization I smiled.

Shifting again, he pressed his finger against my mound and I shuddered, instantly filled with pleasure. The spot that had always yearned for attention but was forever ignored until now, until at last its purpose had been discovered.

I couldn't contain my emotion and I groaned raggedly against his face, my lips brushing his ear. His finger worked faster, hot and slick, stroking me with the precision of an artist. My legs shook, and as much as I wished to control my sudden reactions, I wanted to abandon everything and experience a joy I had never known.

"Oh," I breathed. That was the only sound I could force from my paralyzed throat. My body quaked, shuddered, responded to his caress. He hadn't entered me yet, merely touched me with a single finger and sent me into bliss. I had never known that my body had this potential. How had I been married and become a mother yet never felt this before?

With my mind in a fog, I realized I hadn't yet touched him. The earthquakes that had threatened to split me in half had not yet ceased when I rolled onto my side and ran my hand from his side to his hip. Before I touched him, his eyes briefly closed, his lips parting in anticipation.

His pale eyes opened when I grasped him, and from that moment on he wouldnever take his eyes off me.


	7. Ignited

Julia7

I had never seen a man in this position before, allowing me the pleasure of exploration.

With Louis, it was merely him grabbing my hand and forcing me to stroke him until he pulled my legs apart and satisfied himself. There was never any affection, no murmurs of love. It was purely sex to sate him, as he was the man and his needs prevailed over mine.

But this night was different in every aspect. My body still tingled, my flesh still warm and sensitive. Despite lying on his back, Erik continued to caress me as though his pleasure was not determined by what he felt between his legs, but what he experienced with his hands, his tongue, his lips, his eyes.

He was to be my lover.

My face grew hot again as I found myself studying the dusting of hair along Erik's stomach, the way it fanned up his chest and down his legs. He inhaled sharply when I placed my hand on his abdomen, purposely avoiding his manhood. I wasn't yet ready to touch him. I needed to explore him, to run my fingers along his broad chest, down his trim hips and thighs.

Swallowing hard, he accepted my easy affection, the slow, rolling boil of teasing and torment. His hands gripped the bed sheets, his head lifting from the pillow to watch me swirl my fingers along the hard, smooth plane of his torso.

His lean frame mesmerized me. I'd felt this part of a man inside of my body, but I'd never had the opportunity to enjoy it. How threatening it had once been the first time Louis had decided that if I were to be his wife then he'd best be damned sure my body was worth having. I was always his, he was never mine.

But this man outstretched on my bed, his hand raking through my hair, his every breath mine…he was willing to share something deeply intimate, something worth possessing.

I could wait no longer. Gently at first I grasped him and heard him groan, felt his body tighten. His hips jerked upward, his head falling back against the pillow at first and then up again. From the corner of my eye I saw his lips part. It excited me to know I held sway over him, to discover that I could return the pleasure he'd given me.

Encouraged, I grasped him tighter and he murmured something under his breath. I thought he said my name, or possibly 'please'. It didn't matter what he said; the expression on his face spoke on his behalf.

With a ragged breath he turned onto his side and kissed my bare shoulder, his hands moving down the length of my body, unsure of where his touch was needed most. Each tender caress left me dizzy, drunk for the next kiss. Momentarily I lost my hold on him, but I felt his length against my thigh. Strange how flesh so soft was equally as hard. I hadn't realized all men felt the same in that aspect. Different sizes, different shapes, but still similar.

I reached for him but he whispered, "No, not yet." He brought his fingers to my lips and touched my cheek, his eyes filled with wonder. It was as though he needed to touch me, as if he received pleasure by watching my reaction.

At last I found my opportunity to bring him to the brink of his sanity. It was only fair, I thought, as his head had lowered, his lips closing around my nipple. I needed to give him pleasure in return.

He bit me softly in surprise once I brought his index finger into my mouth and sucked on the sensitive pad. He exhaled harshly, his hand gripped my hip. His erection pressed harder against the inside of my thigh and he groaned louder than before. My stomach tightened, and I felt my desire escalate. For the first time in my life my body was willing to enjoy a man's touch. I ached to feel him. I hadn't known I could ache in pleasure and anticipation.

"You will unravel me tonight," he whispered against my chest. "Completely."

I chuckled softly and kissed his fingertip, allowing him but a moment to recover his senses before I stole them again. "I've dreamt of this moment," I said, my honestly surprising me.

Once the words were spoken I could not retract them. Erik's head lifted, his gaze meeting mine. He appeared so sullen despite the perspiration on his brow and the feral desire in his eyes.

"Is this a dream?" he asked with a straight face.

Reaching down between our bodies, I dared not answer with words.

He kissed my neck, my shoulders, and my breasts until I could not tolerate his sweet torment a moment longer. A knot had formed within me, the sensations I had experienced for the first time building once more. He made it impossible to think, to breathe. I surrendered to him, knees apart, body shuddering in anticipation of being rendered helpless once again.

A soft cry left my lips, which I muffled against his shoulder. He held me tighter, supported me as I trembled in delight. I heard him grunt, a prideful sound as though by giving me everything he could had made him triumphant.

My body went limp. For a man of such unyielding passion he was gentle, restraining himself. If I had known then that he lacked experience with a woman—no more so than I lacked with a man—perhaps I would have seen his attentiveness as fear that he would climax too soon.

His hand dallied between my thighs and I pressed my palm against his back, realizing for the first time since he had disarmed me with his steady touch that he was still wearing his shirt. Slowly I peeled it back and he hastily pulled his arm through the sleeve.

My fingers dug into his flesh, feeling…scars? Long, thin scars along his upper back. My hand moved up to his shoulders where his muscles were bunched but his skin smooth. Goodness, I thought, what had happened to him?

I already knew: He'd been flogged. The puckered scars were unmistakable.

He paused once I traced the old wounds, his face lifting from my shoulder. "No," he said under his breath. His lips contorted, the pain in his gaze far too much to bear.

Before Erik pulled my hand away, I trailed my fingers down , I trailed my , his lower back, caressing his buttocks and the back of his thigh. I thought for certain he would roll to his side and away from me. I could feel his heightened anxiety, the discomfort my curiosity had caused.

But several kisses to his neck, a gentle, encouraging sigh and whispered words stayed him. He exhaled against my throat, hissing my name as he nipped me with his teeth. The moment was resurrected, our needs outweighing the secrets of our past lives.

My hand traveled from his lower back to his hips and finally between his legs. I caressed the insides of his thighs and his testicles, felt how tight they were.

That was almost too much for him. His arm swept beneath my body and pulled me close. I felt him there, all of him, waiting for me to accept him. His left cheek was against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my shoulder and neck.

"I don't want more children," he blurted out softly. I felt him pull away, the reluctance in his expression echoing how I felt as well. Neither of us wanted to walk away from the flames. "I…I don't…"

"Neither do I," I replied. Not now, not yet…Perhaps not with him. "There's a tin…in my dresser drawer."

Erik shifted onto his side and I doubt I had ever moved faster in my life, naked no less, to retrieve the tin. How peculiar I felt holding the metal container, hearing Erik breathing hard behind me.

"What is that?" he questioned, his voice deep and husky.

"To keep from conceiving," I answered. My cheeks burned. I was truly not myself.

He watched as I returned to bed slowly, calm penetrating my mind. Tonight I was in control as I had never been before. This man was in my bed because I invited him, not because he demanded that I pleasure him.

After I sheathed him he ran his lips down my arm and to my hand. I knew by his fevered movements that he was barely able to stand another moment of being apart. His passion made me submissive and I lay beneath him, my hands on his hips. With his face buried against my shoulder, I guided him to my center, gasping when I felt him slide into me.

"Julia," he whispered.

He settled within me and I held him tight, registering the sensation of him, his length, his thickness buried within my body. We fit perfectly together, both inside and out.

"Erik," I breathed. His hips moved slowly and I met his thrust. I could hardly believe we were joined, our arms wrapped around each other, our breaths in perfect rhythm. What I felt with him was much more than sex. It was a sigh of relief that months of recklessness had turned into familiarity. He wasn't a stranger. He was mine. My love.

He thrust harder, a groan escaping his lips. His fingers raked through my hair, his head lifting so that our gazes met. Slowly he pulled out and stroked me from the inside, doing his best to lengthen the moment.

"Please," I begged, needing to surrender to him, to know his strength over me didn't mean he would use his hand or body against me. My fingers dug into his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his hips. "Please make love to me."

And he did, as a man is meant to a love a woman, and as a woman is meant to love a man. Completely.


	8. Revealing

NDBRs: There were several changes, mostly in the middle. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Julia8

Our lovemaking didn't last until the first light of dawn. With how he made me feel inside and out, I wasn't certain if I would have survived the night. No one had ever given me such pleasure before, such assuredness that I was needed, wanted…desirable. After Lisette was born—after I had failed to give my husband a son—I felt Louis's bitterness. He took me because I was his to take, not because he loved and honored…in sickness…and to his death.

For the remainder of the night, however, I didn't think of Louis. I had Erik murmuring in my ear, whispering my name, stroking my neck.

I could feel Erik holding back, resisting the urge to quicken his pace and immediately spill his seed. He wanted the night to last, but neither of us had the experience to continue with the passion that had brought us to my bed. When I thought of that night much later in life it made me chuckle, as we were really no better than two fumbling novice lovers discovering pleasures of the flesh.

"Julia," Erik whispered, his voice strained as he slowly filled me. He kissed my neck, buried his face against me. I tossed my head from side to side, wanting him to kiss my lips, to feel his tongue against mine. As much as I had abandoned all other forms of modesty, I still couldn't ask him to kiss my mouth.

I knew deep inside that he wouldn't, not yet. In fact, he wouldn't for many years.

But with new sensations threaded through my insides, delights I'd never known, I was rendered speechless. I moved with him, cradled him between my thighs, ran my hands over his clothed back down to his buttocks. I dug my fingers into his upper arms until he grabbed my hand and laced his fingers with mine.

My eyes opened when he brought the back of my hand to his lips and thrust hard, his hips sending pressure onto that exquisite center of nerves waiting to be released once more. He brushed a kiss against my knuckles and thrust again…harder this time…harder again…my body bucked and my legs locked tighter around him.

Groaning, he thrust one last time and whispered my name against the back of my hand. I felt his manhood pulsing, my walls contracting around him. We'd climaxed, me leading and Erik following.

We were silent for a while, both of us attempting to catch our breath. I drew circles on his back with my fingertips, my eyes growing heavy. I could have fallen asleep with him draped over me, keeping me warm on a December night.

"Have I injured you?" he asked at last.

"Not at all," I said with a lazy smile. "Have I injured you?"

He was silent a moment, not understanding my playful words.

"Is it possible for a woman to injure a man in this…situation?"

His words were endearing. I kissed his ear. "Doubtful."

My heart was still beating wildly and judging from his breathing he hadn't settled completely yet. I still felt his manhood inside of me, slowly returning to a relaxed state.

"We fit," he whispered against my ear.

"Yes," I whispered back as he moved to lay on his back and I ran my fingers along his chest. He removed the barrier that kept us from creating a child and tossed it into the refuse bin beside the bed. From the corner of his eye he watched me touch him, seemingly hypnotized by my touch.

But unexpectedly, just when I thought we were comfortable together, he rolled onto his side and away from me. "I should return home," he said, his voice low.

Naturally I panicked. I think I had every right to panic considering how he had treated me. In the course of an evening I was prepared to call him my Don Juan—and now he wanted to leave me alone in my cold bed.

I wrapped my arm around him and placed my hand on his chest, pulling myself closer and noticing at once how tense he had become.

"A moment longer," I requested.

He didn't answer. My heart began to break. The veil of fantasy and romance lifted from my eyes. Why should he remain? He was a man and I had given him all that he needed. We had no ties to bind us; we were neighbors and nothing more. I was merely the widow playing a whore. My payment was an evening of physical entertainment. I had never been so angry with myself.

Closing my eyes, I held my breath and bit my lip, unable to look at him as I felt my hand rise and fall with his every breath. Suddenly I wanted him to leave before I broke down in tears. I would cry myself to sleep, selfishly—ignorantly—wishing he would stay forever. I felt lonely and isolated from the world, jealous of this man because he had a son just as I had a daughter, but he shared his home with other adults. I imagined him sitting at the dinner table and discussing the daily news, while I sat alone with Lissy and recited nursery rhymes. It wasn't fair that he wouldn't give himself to me for a moment more. At least another hour…two hours…until dawn. Until I was old and gray.

My God, I was pathetic.

When Erik said nothing more, I opened my eyes and started to lift my hand but found it unnecessary. His eyes were closed, his lips parted. He'd fallen asleep.

I watched him for a moment, my own eyes barely able to stay open. From where I lay I couldn't see the right side of his face, the flesh he kept covered with his mask. As I lay beside Erik, I wondered about his scars. I assured myself that nothing would ever alter the feelings I had for him. I'd spent many years intrigued by him as he sat by his window and played the violin, and now I was enamored with him. One unseen side of his face could not change deep-rooted feelings. If he screamed at me, if he beat me or my daughter, if he forced me to serve him…those were the only reasons I would ever look at him differently.

"You have my heart," I whispered, brave merely because he was sound asleep.

Erik snored softly, a rumble that sounded like a deep sigh. His head slumped to the side and I discovered that his mask had come loose. It wasn't completely off—far from it, in fact—but it wasn't completely covering his face.

What I saw was his skin from his hairline down to the bridge of his nose. His flesh was red, as though he'd been stained by burgundy wine. From what I could see, it appeared as though he were pox-marked. I envisioned the hand of God molding his features and making a mistake. Like a clay doll, I thought, the material drying before it could be repaired. Perhaps as a sort of payment for making such a dreadful error, his maker had blessed him with the angelic gift to make music.

I knew by this time that he'd been born with these scars. He'd never said so directly, but in passing he'd casually mentioned his mother giving him a mask, the only gift he'd ever received from his parents. He'd swiftly changed the subject before I could comprehend what he had said. His words, however, disturbed me. The look in his eyes, the expression on his face when he spoke of his mother gave me gooseflesh. I knew then that Madame Giry was not his birth mother.

He wore a hairpiece as well. I'd known that for several weeks when I unexpectedly returned to the parlor and found him straightening it. He didn't see me, as I came to an abrupt stop at the parlor door and turned on my heel, immediately walking into the kitchen. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know what he would want me to think.

In my heart I knew Erik would never want me to see his face unmasked—at least not yet. I knew from his previous actions that he was very self-conscious about his appearance and now I understood why he wished to hide himself. My feelings for him had not changed, since I would respect him because he was a human being and he treated me with dignity. It was only fair that I return the sentiment.

It was also time I sent him home.

"Erik," I whispered.

"Don't," he muttered, still very much asleep.

I paused, lifting my hand from his chest, which instantly woke him. He shot up in bed, sucking in a breath.

"Where—" he started. He glanced around, his eyes wild until he found me beside him. Swallowing, he nodded and cleared his throat. "Did we fall asleep together?" he asked.

"Yes," I smiled, deciding not to tell him he'd fallen asleep and I had watched him.

"How long?"

"A half-hour at most," I replied.

"I—" He paused, studying me as I lay beside him. With the look I saw in his eyes I thought for certain he would lean over me and kiss me deeply. For a moment I swore I saw him contemplating lying down and falling asleep. Then it was gone.

"I should return before Alex wakes. If he finds I'm gone he'll think I abandoned him."

It wasn't the most believable excuse, but he seemed genuinely worried. Without a word I watched him move from the bed. If he chose to leave, I reasoned, I would watch him dress. He wouldn't realize I watched him, as he had his back to me. I should have been ashamed of myself, but as he still wore his shirt, I merely saw his long legs. It was enough to stir my wicked thoughts and bring my blood to a slow boil.

"Will you visit again for tea?" I asked as I rolled onto my stomach and rested my head on my folded arms.

Erik twisted and studied me from over his shoulder. "For crumpets," he answered in his baritone voice, a slight smile on his lips.

He'd ensnared me with that smile, and as I lay with the blanket covering only my hips, I caught the twinkle in his eye, the guarantee that I had ensnared him as well.


	9. The Candle

Julia8

"I will be gone Friday evening," I explained to Erik when he arrived the following evening.

He stared at me, a blank expression on his face.

"An old friend of mine and her brother are spending a weekend in Paris. We're seeing a play together," I elaborated.

Still, he said nothing.

"Her name is Hermine Leach. Her brother is Archie Leach. Perhaps you've heard of their family?"

Erik shook his head.

"I'm certain that if you'd like to attend the performance Archie would arrange something. He has a box—"

"No."

He answered so quickly that I didn't know what to say or do. "Well," I replied slowly. "Since I won't be home Friday I wanted you to know. I'd hate for you to knock on the back door and find no one answered. Or that a neighbor was here with Lisette and I wasn't in."

He frowned as though I'd hurt his feelings by planning an evening without him, despite the invitation extended to him.

"Are you certain you don't wish to attend? It looks quite lovely."

"I prefer opera."

"Yes," I said under my breath. It was then that I realized he stood at a distance from me. It was quite odd, considering how we had spent the previous evening, that he remained with his back nearly against the wall.

"I do beg your pardon?" I said.

He stared at the floor and breathed through his mouth, a habit I took as meaning he was nervous or uncomfortable.

"Are you occupied tonight?" he questioned without looking me in the eye.

"No," I chuckled uncomfortably. "You're more than welcome to stay. The door—"

"How would I know?"

I furrowed my brow. "Pardon me?"

"If you wished to see me. How would I know?"

We stared at each other for a moment and I saw the genuine concern in his expression. The doubt in his pale eyes, the certainty that he would soon find that my door remained locked. His lack of confidence took me by surprise, though I suppose I should have realized it from the very first day we spoke.

This was no ordinary man that intrigued me. Erik Kire would prove this to me time and again.

I crossed my arms and pursed my lips. "Well, perhaps I should leave a wreath hanging on the door." I shook my head. "No, it's too dark. You'd never see it."

Erik shifted his weight. "Perhaps a candle?"

"A candle? Yes, that may work," I shrugged. "When it's lit you'll know I'm home."

He nodded and remained at a distance.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. It was the surest way to receive an answer from him.

"Not really," he answered. He paused before walking down the hallway. "What have you made for dessert?"

-o-

Three weeks passed before Erik paid me another visit. I saw him, yes, but only in passing, which amused me. He preferred using the gate in back rather than walking around the block.

With snow covering his trouser legs and his teeth chattering, he stood outside my back door and merely told me about his opera and how it neared completion. Then he left again and I heard him mumble on his way to the gate that he needed to complete it at once.

When he did finally come to my home and sit for a moment, his eyes were red and his shoulders sagged.

"You look terribly exhausted," I said as he brushed snow from his cape.

"I'm fine," he replied. I closed the door behind him and took his belongings as usual.

Eventually I came to expect Erik to dig his heels in every step of the way. He'd never admit to it, but he enjoyed sparring in this manner because it seemed to be the only stimulation he received. My jealousy concerning Erik living with adults and me living with only my daughter was soon proved completely unfounded.

We'd known each other for almost nine months and yet I had no idea that while he shared a house with Madame Giry, Meg, and Alex, he didn't necessarily live with them.

"What have you been doing that you're so exhausted?" I questioned.

He exhaled as though I simply maddened him. "I'm not exhausted. I feel fine."

"Hmm. Well, sit down in the parlor and I'll bring you tea. I didn't have a chance to bake today, but I did make lemon chicken and—"

"Is it warm?"

I could barely keep myself from smiling. "In a half hour I'll have it on a plate for you."

"Fine."

"Along with a dinner check," I teased.

My sense of humor was either far above or far below his comprehension. Often when I meant my words to be light he took them as serious and offending. Slowly, however, he realized that a jest didn't mean I was making fun of him.

Knowing Erik, especially in the early stages of our relationship, was like watching a person discovering himself for the first time. Try as I may, he made it very difficult to love and not pity him.

I served Erik chamomile tea on purpose, as it seemed to relax him and I knew, despite his words, that he was indeed ready to collapse. A full belly and a cup of tea and he would most certainly nestle into his chair for a cozy evening.

"How is your composing?" I asked when I joined him in the parlor. The room felt cold compared to the oven-warmed kitchen. I added another log to the fire.

He shrugged. "It irritates me."

"Your opera?"

He looked away. "I should…retire," he grumbled.

"Oh, but you write such beautiful music," I cooed. He glared at me, assuming I patronized him. "Honestly, I think it's wonderful. I would hate to hear you've given up."

"Luc Testan would not shed a tear." He would have crossed his arms and slouched had it not been for the tea cup in his hands and cookies on the table.

"You concern yourself far too much with what he thinks."

"I concern myself precisely the correct amount."

I'd never heard a more ridiculous phrase and coughed delicately in an attempt to keep from laughing outright. No wonder he was exhausted. It must have taken quite a toll on him to combat everything I said. Sometimes I wondered if we enjoyed each other's company purely based on our need to disagree. Other times I was certain that our passionate ways drew us together.

"Have Madame Giry and Meg heard your new opera?" I questioned.

"Involuntarily."

"I don't understand."

"When they eat dinner with Alex I play in my room," he answered.

I turned my head to the side and studied him. "You don't eat at the dinner table?" I questioned.

Before the words left my mouth I regretted asking. I looked away and so did Erik, and for several moments neither of us spoke. His posture had changed, his knees bent, his hands clutched the arms of the chair. I wondered if he was going to stand and grab me by the arm, if he'd lead me down the hall as Louis would have done and make me regret my words.

"They eat together," Erik said quietly.

He didn't sound angry when he spoke. His voice was sullen, his chin dropped down nearly to his chest. If anything he appeared quite ashamed of himself.

"You're an artist," I stated.

He stared at me briefly, still uncertain, still afraid to speak. I began to wonder if I was the only person he spoke to in the course of a day. As I looked him in the eye, I knew he had only his music and his son. He was quite possibly more alone than I was.

"You prefer the quiet," I said, allowing him to avoid his discomfort. "Isn't that correct?"

He still didn't answer, as I expected he understood that he didn't need to. I knew the unspoken truth.

"How late do you stay awake writing?" I asked him, afraid that the conversation would dwindle to uncomfortable silence.

"I haven't slept in a while," he admitted.

"A while?"

He shrugged. "A few nights."

"Goodness. A few nights?" How appalling. No wonder he looked as though he would collapse.

He rubbed his left eye and shrugged. "I'm fine."

We made small talk concerning sparrows and the weather until Erik's eyes grew heavy and his head started to bob. I felt like a trickster who had lured him into my parlor for a nap, which was precisely what I had done. The poor man had no idea I had given him the tea and a comfortable chair merely to put him to sleep for an hour or two.

When he could no longer resist the urge to sleep, I stood and took his tea cup with me to the kitchen. "Wait here and I'll have dinner for you in a moment."

He nodded and folded his hands. I knew when I returned that I would find him asleep in his chair. I wanted to find him asleep, as I worried for his health and well-being, considering how little rest he'd gotten. A couple of nights had me worried, more than that had me fit to be tied.

When I re-entered the parlor, my hands empty, Erik was deeply asleep. I stood in the doorway for a long while and watched him, content with my little dream of a perfect domestic life. There sat my lover, my mate in his overstuffed armchair chair. I envisioned him in his robe with a dog by his feet and newspaper in hand. I would bring him tea and we would talk until the fire died. My fairytale, I mused, the perfect marital life I had yet to experience.

It saddened me greatly to think of Erik alone at dinner but I never spoke a word of it. As I did with many aspects of our relationship, I created an intricate dance and waltzed around sensitive subjects as to not disrupt his life.

However, there would eventually be one subject I refused to shy away from: Christine de Chagny.


	10. Beginning of the End

NDBRs: Slight changes.

Julia9

He was in love.

But it wasn't with me.

It hadn't exactly been a secret over the years that Erik continued to pine over Christine. Bit by bit I chipped away at this secret he held, this epiphany of womanhood. He never said much—only that she was beautiful, slender, angelic, and a most impressive soprano—but it really didn't matter what he said. I hated her.

Each time he came into my home I wanted to wring his neck and tell him how foolish he acted. She'd left him. He'd told me as much, rather reluctantly, but I understood that it hadn't been his choice to live without her.

But I didn't concern myself with Christine de Chagny. She was more of an illusion than a person. That is, until the World's Fair.

"Do you know on which day she's singing?" I questioned one night over tea.

It was customary that we at least enjoyed one cup of tea. The arrangement of lighting a candle and having Erik come to my home was, after all, my idea. In my house we followed my rules. I purposely made the tea as hot as possible in order to have a civilized conversation before we walked upstairs together. Much as I enjoyed his intimate company, he was always distracted. He fascinated me…until the topic of discussion became Madame de Chagny.

"Opening Day," Erik muttered.

It made him uncomfortable to discuss her, as well as it should. I stirred my tea, quite satisfied with my childish self.

"What is she singing?" I asked.

"I have no idea."

"Honestly?" I arched a brow, wondering if he realized I was being snide.

He did. He appeared quite irritated with my question as he stirred his tea faster. "The paper didn't say," he said through his teeth.

"Ah, yes. The paper."

Erik's nostrils flared. He stared at the cup in his hand, refusing to look me in the eye. "We will see each other again," he said smoothly.

I shifted in my seat, refusing to look at him. "How do you know for certain?"

"I know."

He was giving me a headache. I set my cup on the service table and saw Erik turn to watch me.

"I'm tired," I announced.

He stared at me as though he wasn't sure if I would ask him to leave or still invite him into my bed. As much as I loved him, he constantly grated on my nerves with his pig-headed ways.

Erik rose to his feet. "I'll walk you upstairs," he offered.

_Oh no, _I thought, _you simply mustn't waste your time with me when you have Christine to consider._

"I believe I have the strength to walk myself upstairs, but I appreciate your gentlemanly intentions," I said.

"You're mocking me," he snapped.

It angered me that he thought he had a valid reason to insinuate such a claim. I would snuff out his words with feminine charm—otherwise known as deceit.

"Heavens no," I answered with a chuckle. "You're worried I might fall and hit my head. That's quite considerate of you, Erik."

He was furious, I knew, as I denied him his night in my bedroom, but he wouldn't say another word on the matter. Perhaps he realized I was justified—or perhaps he feared he'd never again see the candle in my bedroom window. Whatever the case, he silently let himself out. I heard him as he slammed the gate shut and muttered to himself.

It served him right. He wasn't the only one disappointed.

-o-

The weeks leading up to the World's Fair saw our visits lessened. I wondered if Erik realized I would only see him on the days when Christine wasn't mentioned in the paper, as there was quite a fuss concerning her performance. I realized my jealousy but refused to put it aside. Lissy kept me busy, as did Alexandre, who spent a great deal in my home.

"You haven't been eating well," I told Alex the following day as he stomped through the back door. He amused me, as he'd knock twice and enter immediately, never waiting for an answer.

Alex shrugged. "I haven't been hungry," he replied.

"You're too young to lose your appetite," I said as I held him by the chin and kissed his forehead. "Come, eat lunch with me and Lisette."

For months I'd noticed a change in Alex, an unwillingness to look others in the eye. My heart broke for him, as he'd always been animated and gregarious. His father never mentioned a change in his demeanor or anything in particular that would have upset Alex. However, these days Erik only noticed the paper.

"Has someone hurt you, Alex?" I asked him.

He shook his head and bit his lip, doing everything in his power to keep from crying.

"I must return home," he said as he pushed away from me. His eyes filled with tears as he scampered toward the back door.

"Alex? Are you certain?"

"Monsieur Lowry will wonder where I am," he answered.

That, above all else, fueled my frustration with Erik. I swiftly wrote him an invitation for dinner and handed it to Alex before he disappeared.

We would exchange words that evening.

-o-

Erik was furious that I had invited him to dinner. He made more noise than a cat in heat as he slammed his back door and stomped to the gate. Smiling to myself, I met him in my garden.

"I knew you would come," I said, my voice dripping with pleasantness. Truly, I wanted to smack him across the face and beat sense into him. For such an intelligent man, he lacked all common sense.

He crossed his arms. "Well? What do you want?"

My smile faltered only for a moment before I flashed him a Cheshire grin. "Good evening, Erik."

I could tell by the expression on his face that he expected I would take him straight upstairs. He should have known better.

"Don't give me that look," I said. "Dinner first. And then we shall see."

"This is not part of…our…agreement."

Oh, how infuriating he was, that man!

"Then find a woman you may pay one hundred francs," I snorted. "Put an advertisement in the paper and perhaps you will have your physical demands sated."

He stared at me a moment, no longer angry but ashamed and hurt. His remorse didn't last long, but I knew I had issued a rather serious blow to his ego. There was more to our relationship than he dared to admit. He didn't come to my home merely because I lay beneath him several nights a week. He came to my home for the company and conversation…and yes, because I fed him.

"Are you breaking our arrangement?" he asked, anger snapping into him once more.

"I invited you for dinner."

"I decline."

I may as well have invited the stone wall. I crossed my arms and sighed. "Oh? And may I ask why you've declined my dinner invitation?"

"I owe you no explanation."

With a roll of my eyes, I walked away from him. He'd either come to his senses and follow me inside or I'd come to mine and lock the door. It never failed to amaze me how much I adored him and how maddening he was day after day. Had I not seen the quiet, compassionate man in him, I never would have tolerated his eccentricities. Counting to ten, I left him standing in the garden and hoped Christine was nothing more than a passing fancy.

Perhaps I was merely fooling myself.

Just as I expected, however, Erik walked in behind me and shut the door. I didn't turn to face him, but I heard him breathing heavily as he muttered to himself, "Supper? Why? We don't have supper together."

"Sit, please," I said.

He helped me into my seat, which came as an unexpected delight. For every folly he often rebutted with unexpected kindness, which I imagine came as more of a surprise to him than to me.

"Why tonight?" Erik asked.

I straightened. Now came my greatest performance, as it killed me that there was another woman on his mind, infiltrating his every thought. I forced another smile and placed my hand over his, hoping he would finally see me there with him.

"To celebrate," I said.

His hardened expression remained merely because he wasn't strong enough to admit his feelings. I didn't understand how deep-rooted his self-deprecation was or how his parents had treated—or mistreated him.

He nodded once.

"To celebrate," he agreed.

I was just as much to blame for our misery as Erik was, and I knew it. That night was the end of our arrangement and the start of a turbulent relationship.


	11. Weakness

Julia10

Conversation was stilted from the very moment we sat down to supper. I attempted to make small talk and asked how Erik enjoyed his food, but he wanted nothing more than to slink home and dote over his memory of Christine. Each time he glanced at me I knew for certain that he didn't see me across the table. He envisioned Christine and therefore ruined my intentions of a pleasant dinner.

To hell with holding my tongue.

"When will you see Mme de Chagny again?" I questioned.

He glared at me, but didn't say a word. His endeavors were utter foolishness and I would prove that to him this evening or never see him again. For months I had sat patiently and listened for hours about how wonderful her voice was, how she was such a talented singer. I'd rather have driven nails into my ears than listen to his incessant babble over the singer.

"You don't know when she's performing?" I questioned.

"The second of April," Erik answered at last. He nearly dropped his knife on the floor as he hastily cut through his food.

"Luc Testan said her closing performance in New York was a disaster," I said under my breath.

"Pardon me?"

"And you will see her on the second of April?" I questioned.

I stared at him without blinking and dared him to lie to me.

"Yes," he said, his answer grating on my nerves just as my questions grated on his.

I refused to show a reaction. "Would you like more bread?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

He accepted the bread basket, and for several moments we sat in silence. I stared at my plate and considered rising to my feet and screaming that his intentions were completely asinine. I also considered falling to my knees and begging him to cease these fantasies, to accept me and forget Christine existed.

Instead, I remained privately spiteful.

"Good. I'm glad you're going to attend the fair again," I said.

Erik nearly choked on his food. Now that I had his full attention, nothing would stop me. I would tell him exactly how I felt and he would listen—for once.

"And I expect you will take Alex," I said without looking at Erik.

In that moment, everything changed. His chair slammed against the wall, the silverware on the table rattled, and before I knew what had happened he was standing over me screaming.

I'd never seen him enraged, not even the night he killed Louis. All of my confidence, every selfish intention, fled from my body and left me stunned, a victim of his rage.

A victim once more.

"Erik," I gasped, not knowing what else to say or do.

"She is mine! He will know her when I deem fit! Do you understand me?" he continued.

I shuddered, unable to look him in the eye. "Sit," I whispered. "For God's sake, Erik, sit."

He was breathing hard through his mouth as he attempted to control himself, which, thankfully, he did. I was ashamed of myself for taunting him, and as I sat in confused silence, I wondered if he would eventually regret screaming at me.

I wanted to look him in the eye and ask him why I was good enough for a tryst, but not for true love. But I couldn't meet his gaze. I knew he wouldn't see me still, and I feared I wouldn't see him, either.

He'd changed over the months that had passed since Christine's name was mentioned in the paper. The vast landscape of thoughts and ideas he had were now focused only on Christine.

"Please sit," I said at last.

"You said you wanted to celebrate. Does your offer still stand? Tell me now."

I hated myself, my cowardly, traitorous self. Louis had beaten me on the outside. Now I allowed Erik to beat me on the inside.

I folded my napkin and pushed away from the table. I was not his love, I was not his heart. I was nothing to him but a body. Years of physical encounters did not guarantee love.

"Wait for me upstairs," I said, resorting to the only thing we had in common.

Erik walked upstairs without me. It was the first time I hadn't led him upstairs. I wondered if he felt as awkward as I did as I stood in the kitchen and cleaned the dishes. Torn between wanting to see him one last time and knowing it would only add another layer of humiliation.

With my back against the kitchen wall, I stared at my hands and wondered when I had abandoned my senses. Once Louis was dead I didn't feel good, but I felt better. Lisette was my life and I loved her, and together I hoped to live in peace.

But I was not strong enough to live on my own. No, I needed a man in my life—or at least in my bed. I thought it fulfilled me to have Erik in my life, but as I examined my hands, which had never once fought back, I found I was weaker than I ever thought possible.

I muffled my sobs until I was able to dry my eyes and walk upstairs. When I reached the landing, I heard Erik mutter to himself through the bedroom door.

"A monster…" he said under his breath."A complete monster…" He shifted. I wondered if he lay beneath the covers and waited for me. "I don't want this…I don't…I want her to love me."

I sank onto the stairs and buried my head in my hands. In one last vain attempt, I filled his words with my name. _I want Julia to love me. I do want this. I've always wanted this_.

Please don't do this to me, I wanted to say to him. Please don't leave me for her. I'm the woman who loves you, who has loved you for years. He couldn't see it because he wasn't ready, and neither was I. Our relationship stood at the mercy of a dam that neither of us knew how to break.

"Oh, Julia," Erik sighed. "How cruel I've been to you."

My heart stopped and I lifted my head. I held my breath and listened for him to say my name again, but he didn't utter a word. Once I dried my eyes, I rose to my feet and entered the bedroom.

I felt Erik watch my every move. This was the room in which he made me feel powerful. It was here, in my bedroom, that he liberated me. How tragic that we both felt most comfortable lost in the dark.

When I turned to face Erik, he sat on the edge of my bed, his legs spread and his head down. I knelt before him and placed my hands on his knees.

I would give him reason to stay, I thought, as I stared at his trouser buttons. At least for one night, I would give him one meaningless reason to stay in my bed, to become an object, not a woman. Numbness froze my senses, my movements and thoughts mechanical. Actions, not feelings. I was, in that moment, his whore.

Slowly, I leaned forward and reached for his buttons.

Without a word Erik stood and I fell backward, startled by his actions. I thought he would grab me by the arms and throw me on my bed, cover my mouth the way Louis had done. Instead, Erik turned in a full circle, his hands against his head.

"Not like this," I thought I heard him say as he stormed from my room, nearly tripping over his feet. He never looked back and never said another word. In a heartbeat he was gone and I was alone. He didn't want me, not even for physical gratification.

The back door slammed, but I barely noticed. Curled up on the floor, I cried myself to sleep.


	12. Grave Mistake

As always, thanks for your reviews. Julia proves she has some cajones in this chapter.

Julia11

I would break our arrangement, if for nothing else than to save my sanity. Ashamed to look in the mirror, I spent the following day like a living corpse. Nothing I did mattered, nothing I said to Lisette brought a smile to her face. She looked at me as though she understood that something was terribly amiss.

"May I play with Alex?" she asked.

"You may, but I would like you to invite him for supper." I loved Alex far too much to see him constantly moping from his back garden and into ours. He was a kind child, exceptionally smart and always talkative. A large part of his personality had dimmed once his father turned his attention to a black and white photograph in the paper. "Tell Alex I'm making cherry pie for dessert."

"Yes, mama," she replied. She looked at me and frowned. "You should lie down a while," she said as she played with my hair. "Your face looks very old."

"I know." I wanted to tell her that Alex's father aged me rapidly, but I knew she'd tell Alex and then I would have Erik at my door demanding answers.

With a nod, I sent Lissy through the back door and felt as though I'd failed her. It made me wonder if Erik ever felt he had failed his son, or if, with Christine blocking his every thought, he even remembered he had a son.

Erik soon proved he could give me a headache whether he was present or not. I wanted to end our relationship, but I didn't know how. Chances were great that he didn't care if I asked him over, considering how our night had ended. Secretly I wondered if he'd notice the candle in the window or if he would walk to my house once he saw it—or if in his mind we'd never shared more than a warm bed.

One by one I relived the moments that bound us together, the details that made me believe he did care for me. His gruff nature and his flustered dissertations regarding the periodicals rarely hid how satisfied he seemed with my company. I would have thought it was the food, but when the sweets were gone and his tea cup empty, he stayed and we talked. On occasion he returned home without asking for an intimate visit.

All those years, I thought to myself, of thinking he wanted me because he enjoyed our time spent together. Now I wondered if he placed Christine's image over mine.

I suddenly became very angry with myself. I would not allow him to take what he wanted and leave me behind. I certainly didn't owe Erik a damned thing, not even for killing Louis. He'd ended Louis' life of his own accord, after all, and had not pursued me in search of expected favors.

Once Lissy returned I started supper and waited for Alex to join us. When it was half past eight and we said our prayers, I asked Lissy if she had invited her closest friend.

She nodded readily. "I don't know where he is," she shrugged. "Shall I go knock on his door?"

I shook my head. "He must be eating dinner with his father."

"Alex said his father never eats with him."

"Then perhaps Madame asked him to stay home for supper." I hadn't known that Erik still ate alone. In fact, it had been such a long time since we'd spoken of where he ate his meals that I had forgotten he sat in his room like a grumpy old toad.

Once we finished and Lisette helped me with the dishes, she went to her room to read for the night. I paced my own bedroom for quite some time before I decided to light the candle. I suspected that Erik was behind Alex not attending supper with us. If nothing else, I would let him know that our children were friends, regardless of our personal interactions. As long as they lived near one another it was their right to keep their close friendship.

I'd worked myself into an incurable fury once I returned to the kitchen. I didn't think he would accept my candle-lit invitation, and so it came as a surprise when I heard the latch on the gate open and the hinges creak.

Though I wanted him to accept, it angered me something terrible that he was in my yard. For months I had held my tongue, but tonight I would not fear his anger. I would tell him how incensed he made me, how cruel he was to stay in my home and speak of another woman.

"How dare you," I said as I threw the door open.

"Good evening," he answered dryly.

I held him by the shirt collar, my actions no longer my own. It should have terrified me to act in this manner but I made no apologies.

"If you do not wish to see me ever again, that is one thing, Erik." I narrowed my eyes. His widened in disbelief. "But you do not come between Lisette and Alexandre. They are friends and have been for years. Let them have that at least…if they should have no more." _If you will not give me more,_ I thought to myself.

He gave me a lusty look as though he fully expected my anger would lead to something more.

"Leave," I demanded. "I have nothing else to say to you."

He stood speechless as I whipped around. Served him right to swallow his tongue. I'd never before held the upper hand in such a manner, and I must admit I was pleased with myself.

But then he stopped me.

"I have plenty to say to you."

My claws were well-sharpened. I turned to face him and smiled like the devil. "Save your words," I seethed. "From now on, save everything you have for Christine."

I slammed the door and instantly brought my hands to my face. My God, what had come over me? My hands began to shake, and for a moment I thought I would be sick to my stomach. Was this what I had wanted? No, no it wasn't. This wasn't at all what I wanted. I desired a rational discussion with an irrational man—though I had no reason to call him irrational considering my actions.

"Oh, my God," I muttered.

Before I could move, the door flew open and hit the wall with a sickening crack.

Erik stormed through, his broad-shouldered frame pausing in the doorway. In a split second Louis had been resurrected. His posture, his temper, his large hands…I froze and stared at that wide chest, never once considering a glance at his face. It didn't matter if the body before me held Erik's face and mask. All I knew were Louis' violent actions.

I released a strangled scream and ran for my life, certain that he would kill me. When he managed to trap me behind the table, I decided to run into him with my shoulder. Foolish, I knew, but I wasn't thinking. Clearly, I wasn't thinking at all!

The wind was knocked from my lungs as we collided, and after a half-second of standing before him dazed, I started to fall back. He grabbed me around the waist and put his hand on my shoulder to brace me.

That's when I looked into his face, felt his hardened frame against my body. He looked at me with his intense green eyes, his nostrils flared. I knew what Louis would do to me now that he had caught me by the arm.

I slapped him.

And then I saw Erik, his lips straight, face pulled taut. He was—just as he should have been—livid.

"Oh, God," I whispered under my breath.

Erik grabbed me by the wrists. I fully expected a knee to my abdomen, a fist to my cheek, my gown tossed over my head. Unable to stand a moment longer, I sank toward the floor, vision wavering. I knew for certain that I would faint.

Before I reached the floor, Erik grabbed me and held me upright. He supported me, pressed my body to his. I turned my face away from him, swallowing hard as he breathed against my neck. My eyes closed and I feared what he was going to do. Kill me, I assumed. I felt I deserved it for what I had done.

Unexpectedly, he released his tight grip on my arms and ran his thumb along my wrist as though he feared to leave a bruise.

"Please," I muttered. "Lisette is upstairs."

"Oh, Julia," he said quietly as he pulled me into his embrace.

He held me for a long while and I cried against his chest. I feared to love him just as much as I feared losing him. His face rested against my shoulder, his hand stroking the small of my back. After our tumultuous encounter it surprised me that I could stay in his arms and feel at ease. He didn't need to say a word to me. I knew in my heart what he would say. _I will never hit you, Julia. Not ever. _

He would yell, he would make a fuss, but he wouldn't strike me.

"Please, just listen to me," he said at last. "I just want a word with you. Nothing more."

His words were lies. I felt him through my cotton night dress, his arousal hard against my belly. In his arms I found comfort, in _my_ arms he found desire.

"About what?" I questioned, barely able to speak.

He lifted his head and shifted. Our eyes met in the darkness, but I couldn't read his expression. After a while, I rested my head on his shoulder, wanting nothing more than for him to hold me, at least one final time.

The fear I'd felt in his presence dissipated. His arms were familiar, the smell of his skin, the feel of his clothing, the heat of his body against mine. I didn't know anyone else the way I knew Erik, and when I was with him, I knew he was the only person in the world who knew me, regardless if he would admit it or not.

He was the only man I had ever loved, and yet so much of him remained a mystery to me. I wish I had known this night how cruel his parents had been to him, what hell his parents had offered as a childhood to their only son.

I would like to think that, armed with his information, my actions would have remained civil, that I never would have considered slapping Erik's face. When I thought of this night later in our lives I wondered if I had truly angered him or if I had merely injured him far deeper than physical pain. He would prove later in the night that he could tolerate much greater physical pain. It was the emotional agony I thought would kill him.

At last Erik cleared his throat and stepped away. I watched him from the fringe of my vision as he straightened his clothes.

"What did Alexandre say when he came over here?" he asked without looking at me.

I looked up at him and he met my gaze. "Erik, he never came to dinner."


	13. Painful Decisions

This is a long chapter. Finally, the beating in the alley's aftermath from Julia's POV.

Julia12

I'd never seen Erik terrified before. The expression on his face once he realized Alex was missing was hopeless, completely dumbfounded. I watched as he searched Alex's empty room, muttering to himself that this could not be happening.

In silence I followed Erik outside and stood with him on his front porch. He was either shivering or shaking with rage, I couldn't tell which. I draped a scarf over his shoulders and wrapped it around his neck.

"What are you going to do?" I asked quietly. I stared across the street as I waited for him to answer and felt his gaze fall upon me.

"Find him," he answered.

"What if he is sleeping in the room?"

"I don't give a damn what he is doing, I'll find him."

Our conversation ended. I knew he was upset and I wanted to help him but Erik didn't seem to want help. He preferred solitude to my companionship. I hated him for his stubbornness, for convincing himself that he needed no one.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," he muttered. "I don't want anyone."

He had made that painfully obvious. "It was only a question," I said under my breath.

He made no reply.

"I am trying to help you, Erik," I sighed, merely to be certain that the pig-headed dolt understood my intentions—or to remind myself of my intentions.

"I do not need your help!" Erik shouted. "We are nothing! You are nothing to me! You do not question me, ever! No one questions me, do you understand that? No one!"

His voice echoed down the street and I stood frozen in disbelief. He'd changed so drastically in the past year that I barely recognized him.

Once he settled himself, he looked at me and blinked several times. I wanted to hear him apologize but knew those words would not leave his mouth, not that night, perhaps not ever.

I stood beside him, refusing to back down after his unnecessary display.

"Sometimes when you speak, it is what comes out of your mouth that makes you uglier than anything I could imagine is concealed behind that mask," I said evenly. I felt him shudder with shame and rage. My nails pressed into his shoulder, and I hoped he felt even an ounce of the pain he caused inside of me. "Even if there is nothing between us, I still care for you and Alex. I will always care for you both, no matter what foolishness this night brings for you."

He was too shocked by my words to reply. I saw it in his eyes, the disbelief he felt before I turned and walked away from him. The tears I'd managed to hold finally streamed down my face. I did care for him and I knew I would always care for him. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I loved him and felt sorry for him because there was a good man buried beneath layers of hurt and betrayal, of abuse and neglect I hadn't even begun to realize. He struggled to become a man and I was watching him fail. It sickened and hurt, drove me mad and made me tremble.

The hardest moment of my life was when I turned the corner and did not look back. I hoped he'd find what he needed. Somehow, I still hoped it would be me.

When I returned home I found Meg in my parlor. She caught me in her embrace and allowed me to cry for quite some time in her arms.

"I'll stay with you a while," Meg promised as she left the room to make tea.

"I'm afraid I won't make good company tonight," I said when she returned.

"You're always good company," she replied. "Especially to him."

I'd never heard her use Erik's name. It was either "him" or "Monsieur Kire", never "Erik" and certainly never "my brother". Meg feared him. I could tell by the way her posture changed when she mentioned his name that she wasn't close to him.

I sighed. "In the past," I replied.

Meg frowned. "Forgive me for my words, but I don't understand why you tolerate him."

"Neither do I."

"He's so…"

"Intolerable," I said with a weak smile.

"Irritable."

"Pig headed," I added.

"Quiet."

"Gruff."

"He stares quite often." Meg set her cup down and shook her head. "I'll think I'm alone in the kitchen and when I turn he's there in the doorway. He never says a word. He merely stares a moment and then walks away."

"He's teasing you," I answered.

"I beg your pardon?"

He'd told me of this once when he was particularly loose-lipped.

"He's bored. When he can think of nothing else to write and Alex is away, he's bored. The house is too small for his liking. He merely wishes to entertain himself."

Meg shrank into her chair.

"It's nothing lewd in nature. He merely waits to see how long it takes before he's noticed. He's gone a half-hour with your mother."

"Why, that's absurd."

"And irritating."

We both smiled. "He has seemed more content since he met you," Meg admitted. "Mother has noticed, I'm sure, but you know how she feels. She's quite protective of him."

Quite protective was an understatement.

"I wish she had talked sense into him, though I suppose there's no talking sense into his thick skull."

We sat a while longer until Meg said that she should return home. I was clearing the dishes from the parlor when I heard someone pounding at the front door.

I'd convinced myself before I opened the door that Erik had finally come to his senses, retrieved Alexandre, and was prepared to beg for my forgiveness. I called to Meg that it would be a moment and answered the front door.

Alex grabbed me by the sleeve. "Please, Mama, you must hurry."

"Alex? What is it? Where have you been?"

"They've killed Father."

My heart dropped to my feet. "Wh—what happened? I beg your pardon?"

"Please, before he's dead. They've killed Father."

Meg appeared behind me. She nodded before I could ask her to stay with Lissy. In only my skirt and blouse, I ran with Alex down to the corner and then made him stop.

"First, you must tell me what has happened."

He nearly made himself sick as he blurted out what he'd seen. Most of his words were incoherent. I merely caught that there were several men who had dragged his father out of the hotel and led him into an alley.

"They kicked him. They took…his things away. I threw a rock and made them stop. But I think he is dead. I returned to the alley and couldn't see him moving."

"Was he breathing?"

"I think so."

"Well, he wouldn't breathe if he were dead. Come, we need a way to bring him home. I'll find a cab."

"Uncle Charles' old wheelchair!" Alex exclaimed. "I'll push!"

We returned to my home, my fears escalating as I asked Meg if we could borrow one of her husband's old wheelchairs. She agreed, thankfully, and explained that there was an old one on the side of the house that she'd moved there just the other day. It may not have been pristine, but the wheels worked and we wouldn't need to disturb her mother.

"Alex, do you remember where your father is?" I asked once we started down the street.

"Yes, Mama, hurry."

We didn't say another word until we reached the alley. Once we arrived, I thought for certain that Alex was correct, as Erik didn't move when we approached. I held Alex by the shoulders to keep him back and whispered in his ear that I would wake his father.

"He's sleeping?" Alex questioned.

"Yes, in a way."

He shrugged off my hands and approached his father, whispering to him with each step. If he carried no other trait that belonged to his father, Alex at least had Erik's stubbornness.

"What did you see?" I asked Alex.

"They beat him. Three of them. I saw it."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know."

I could tell by how high his voice became that he was lying to me but I didn't question him further. I had a feeling I knew what had happened, and as much as I wanted to believe that Erik had this coming to him, I never would have imagined such a savage beating.

Alex looked at me with a baleful gaze. "The Vicomte," he answered. "The rest I didn't know."

"Did they see you?"

"No." He answered swiftly.

"Good."

He gritted his teeth. "I should have killed all three of them."

"Alex, don't say such things. Violence is hardly the answer."

"Forgive me, Mama."

I smiled at him. He was a good little boy, suddenly misguided, but a good child nonetheless.

Erik released a hollow moan. I turned from Alex to him and watched his leg stretch out.

"Alex, stay right here," I said, but it was too late.

Fortunately for both of them, Alex's persistence paid off and Erik stirred, his hand reaching out.

"Take him by the arm but do it gently," I instructed as I pushed the wheelchair into the shadows.

Alex knelt beside his father and gingerly touched his shoulder. With a groan, Erik reached for his face, but his arm fell to the ground again and he sucked in a wild breath.

He groaned louder than before and tried his other arm while Alex, unneeded, stepped back.

Apparently Erik realized his mask was gone once he touched his face. He muttered under his breath as he struggled to move. Poor Alex appeared beside himself with worry but didn't know what to do or how to help—or if his father would accept his help.

"Take is arm but do it gently," I said as I pushed the wheelchair closer and prepared to help Alex lift his father from the ground. I knew full well that Erik could have broken every bone in his body and he would have still insisted on helping himself.

Alex took hold of his father's upper arm and gave it a tug. I winced on Erik's behalf and heard him moan, a stifled curse leaving his lips. Looking at me, Alex's lips trembled and a sob escaped him. While Erik remained motionless, I grabbed Alex and held him close, settling him.

"You must be very gentle. Here, I'll help you."

He looked up at me with his tear-filled eyes, the expression on his face fighting for bravery. No child his age should have ever seen such a terrible sight as his own father beaten and left for dead. Despite everything, Alex loved Erik more than anyone else in the world. He would not forget this night, I knew, not for as long as he lived. I wondered if Erik ever considered what he put Alex through.

With Alex at my side, I touched Erik's arm. He no longer moved, as he'd passed out from the pain again.

"It's out of socket," I told him, muttering a curse to myself. "Help me, Alex, but be very careful. When he wakes he'll be in pain."

Together we attempted to sit Erik upright. He groaned louder than before and let out a cry that made Alex and I step away from him. I held Alex, shielding his face as Erik turned onto his side.

"Oh, good," I said as I stepped forward. "You're awake. That's a good sign."

Alex looked up at me and I kissed his forehead. "He's not dead. He's very much alive." He squeezed me tightly and nestled into my embrace, my sweet son.

I looked up and watched in horror as Erik began to search the darkness. I knew what he did and it angered me.

"My mask," he said. He groped in darkness, turned his face away and inhaled raggedly. I couldn't believe how he had survived a beating and his thoughts were on his mask. Petty concerns, I thought to myself.

"Erik," I warned. Leave it."

"Don't look at me! Either of you, do you understand? Just put it in my hand. And get away!"

His son wished to care for him and he wanted nothing to do with us.

"You stubborn ass," I said rather loudly.

Alex dutifully retrieved the mask and handed it to his father. He knelt quite near and I saw him purposely touch his father's hand. How terribly he wanted acceptance, how greatly he needed to know that he was loved and needed. Without a word, Alex stepped back and began to cry. He looked as though he'd failed. I wanted to tell him how he'd succeeded. He'd proven himself as far more a man than his ignorant father.

I began to wonder why I had come to help Erik.

My eyes hardened as I watched him struggle to sit up. Alex had turned away, unable to watch. I put my arm around him but he didn't return the embrace. He only wanted his father to need him, and thus far he'd received nothing but neglect.

Unexpectedly Erik began to cry. I walked around him and saw his bloody nose meld with the stream of tears. I cared nothing to examine the scars on his face he'd hidden from me for so long. My concerns were his new injuries, as he brow was swollen, his forehead split wide open. I saw him as more human in that moment than ever before merely because he suffered and showed genuine, raw emotion.

I knelt beside him and placed my hand on his back. He fought me a moment, then was forced to concentrate on breathing and spitting out blood. Ever so briefly I mothered him with a gentle touch, with soft words that Alex and I were there for him, with him. Always with him, I whispered. I wanted to tell him that I loved him but he sobbed so hard that I knew he wouldn't hear me.

"You'll make yourself sick," I said as he coughed and spit blood. I wiped his mouth with my handkerchief, which was instantly soaked in blood.

"Leave me," Erik said at last.

I remained quietly beside him and realized that both of his eyes were swollen shut. Blinded and bloody, he was defenseless. I suspected that aggravated him far worse than his physical pain.

Once he settled down, I dabbed blood from his chin and he pulled away.

"Don't treat me like a god damned child," he muttered.

"Do it yourself, then," I told him as I placed the handkerchief in his bloodied hand.

"Your son found an old wheelchair belonging to M Lowry," I said at last. "If you can stand…" my voice trailed off. I glanced up and saw a man at the end of the alley. He watched us briefly, his chest heaving and hands balled into fists. In the darkness I still recognized the Comte de Chagny's visage from his picture in the newspaper. With little more than a nod, he turned and walked away. "Erik, please. They only left a while ago. You don't know that they will be back—and if they see Alex?" I paused and made sure the Comte was gone. "What do you think he would do to Alex if he saw him?" I whispered, "Since you told him."

"I told him nothing," Erik hissed. He managed to open his left eye and glare at me.

"Since you will refuse our help, it is up to you to find a way to stand. If you should decide that for once you can put aside your stubbornness, Alex is beside you. If he chooses to help you now, then he is a better person than I am. Good night, Erik."

Alex ran after me, the terror in his eyes forcing me to stop and reconsider.

"You promised," he pleaded. "No one else will help Father, Mama. No one. Please stay with me. You promised."

"Oh, Alex," I sighed as he returned to his father's side. "What a good son you are to your father."

I watched Erik. He had a choice to make. He could either accept Alex's help or die in an alley as his son and former placee looked on. I could not persuade him, neither could Alex, though he sat near his father and begged silently for a moment of his time. When nothing came, Alex lowered his head.

I looked away once Alex scuttled along like a crab and left his father's side.

"Where are you going?" Erik asked Alex.

At last, it seemed he'd come to his senses.


	14. Injured Inside and Out

In coming weeks the Julia and Erik vignettes I've done as sides to One Week won't be frequently updated due to conflicts with some manuscripts I recently sold. More information will follow shortly. I will also be out of town for 9 days starting this Saturday and may not update during that time. Knowing me, I probably will still update!

Thanks for your understanding and your support. It means a lot to me.

Julia13

For the most part pain kept Erik silent on the journey home. I pitied his condition, as he breathed in sharp, labored breaths, but at least he was still conscious. Honestly, I should have expected such perseverance from him.

While I walked beside Alex, who would not allow me to assist him, I attempted to convince myself that my actions were out of necessity, not affection. Without me he would die, and as a woman with the knowledge and skills of a nurse, it was my duty to aid him.

Before we reached Erik's front door I knew he should not return to his house for the night—at least not without doing himself a great deal of harm. His legs were unsteady, the wounds to his head had already made him sick, and I had no idea if he'd bruised or broken a rib.

I found myself smiling at the sight of stairs. He couldn't hole himself up inside his room this way. Still, I suggested to him that he call upon his neighbors or Madame Giry and Madame Lowry for assistance. Each suggestion only increased his irritability, which I had never guessed possible.

"My house has no stairs," I said lightly.

"Perhaps I'll stay with you." His tone was cynical but when I didn't laugh or make a reply, he looked at me through his swollen, bruised eyes and then turned his attention to Alex.

"Alex, tell Madame Giry that you're safe," I said.

He moped inside, glancing back at his father, whose mask no longer fit due to the knots on his forehead and the bruises to his cheek. Alex lingered a moment as though he were waiting for Erik to ask him to stay. Instead, Erik stared at his knees, which were practically at his chest, and waited for Alex to leave us.

"It would hardly be the most inappropriate thing we've done together," I reasoned.

"Yes," he said as he touched his chin with his fingers, "But I always leave once we're done."

"Romantic," I muttered.

I saw him wince at his own words. "That isn't what I meant."

I couldn't help but smile at him. He was in a tremendous amount of pain. For the moment he had my sympathy and the very last shred of my patience.

"There's a guest room," I said. "It was once a library but I sold all of Louis' books. In a few more hours I could find a doctor for you."

"No doctor."

I sighed heavily. Perhaps I should have guessed that he would never allow a stranger, not even a doctor, to gaze upon his unmasked face. When we first met I thought it was a matter of vanity, but the longer I knew him the more I understood how ashamed he was of himself. He couldn't understand that I accepted him, as he had no acceptance for himself. In his actions, in his words, my thoughts were confirmed. He was a good person, an intelligent person, but a very deeply damaged one. No matter his pain, he could not forget the scars he'd carried for a lifetime.

Unexpectedly Erik attempted to stand. I froze, alarmed by his actions, and watched helplessly as he managed to lift himself from the chair. His hips were jammed between the sides, which made it impossible for him to free himself.

"For God's sake, you foolish man," I said as I waved my arms and made him sit.

He'd done himself a great deal of harm. I saw it in his face as he sucked in a breath and groaned.

"I know a little about wounds from the war," I said absently as I stared across the street. "But if there is something serious—a broken bone or whatnot—you must have someone see to it. Infections could spread, fevers could spike, Erik—"

"Why?"

"Because if you don't…" I looked away.

"I'll be horribly disfigured for the rest of my life."

I shook my head at his self-loathing. His words saddened me. "You'll be in tremendous pain," I replied, "Or you could die."

"Pity."

"Alex would be devastated."

His lip trembled but he said nothing for a long time after that. His expression, nearly hidden by his injuries, was so hopeless, as though he longed for a different option, one in which he could be alone. He only knew how to suffer alone.

"A guest room?" he said.

"It's nearly as big as the master bedroom. There's a reading lamp, a nice window facing south, and the water closet is down the hall."

When he at last relented I wheeled him to my door where Meg met us. Erik kept his head bowed. Alex returned briefly and Meg escorted him home. The only words Erik had for her were, "Tell your mother not to worry."

He said nothing more until I pushed him into the guest room.

"I want to sleep."

He was covered in his own blood, his trousers wet from the puddles in the alley and the rest of his body covered in dirt. I suggested that he first clean himself up a bit for his comfort, and he naturally disagreed.

I left him in his wheelchair beside the bed and walked around to close the curtains since the sun was rising. Exhaustion had not yet interfered with my ability to nurse him back to health. I hoped my strength would last for at least another hour, as I suspected I still had quite a struggle on my hands.

"All of my linens are clean. I would hate to have them all bloodied by you," I said as I approached him.

"I'll sleep sitting up. I'll be fine in this chair."

His expression was anything but convincing.

"You can sleep if you want," I replied with a yawn. "I'll clean the blood away while you rest."

For whatever foolish reason he attempted to move again and discovered that his shoulder was dislocated. He begged me to put it back into place.

I gave a slight nod. "I've never done it before," I lied. I'd put my cousin's shoulder back into place twice as a child and assisted a soldier as well. I didn't want Erik to know, as I assumed he'd put up a fuss and bark commands at me.

His teeth gritted in frustration as he turned from me and stared at the wall.

"But I've seen it done before," I told him.

I rambled on for a moment about what I would need to treat him, my intention set on distracting him. His head tipped forward, the pain from his injuries slowly exhausting him and putting him to sleep. I saw my opportunity to put his shoulder back into place and took it.

His shoulder crunched into place, and from the scream and curse that left his mouth I thought for certain he would hit the ceiling. The shock of it all made him tremble, a tear slipped down his cheek and his lips quivered in agony.

"I'll return in a moment," I promised him, allowing him privacy to muster his dignity.

I walked out the door and stood with my back against the wall, one hand pressed to my stomach. From where I stood I could still hear him attempting to breathe through his pain. I wanted to return to his side, to hold his head to my breast and stroke his hair, to comfort him, mother him, and love him the way I had often dreamt of doing.

While I stood in the hall and listened to him whimper I wondered if he needed my assistance or if I needed to care for him, to prove myself worthy. Tears fell down my cheeks, one after another.

"I hate her," Erik groaned. "Hate her."

I inhaled sharply and held my breath. He sobbed alone in my guest room and I risked a look through the doorway. He sat hunched over, his shoulders slumped, the arm I had put back into its socket held close to his chest. He wept too hard to see me standing there, to know how desperately I wanted to help him.

It took all of my strength to walk away and find towels, sutures, and fresh water to tend to him. I knew before I returned to his side that he would argue and fight me, no matter how great his pain. Such a prideful man, I thought, but so much more. He was unaccustomed to anyone caring about him. From what little I knew of his childhood I fully understood that he'd received little, if any, affection. He couldn't comprehend that someone would repair him, as he only knew that others could do him harm. More than ever I prayed for patience and strength, to love him when I knew he would show me nothing but his worst side.

Once I returned to the room I wheeled him closer to the bed and poured him a glass of water. I started to hand it to him but saw that with his arm so damaged that he couldn't hold it. His left hand was so bruised he couldn't make a fist, and I highly doubted he could hold a glass without spilling it.

He turned his face away and I saw his eyes turn glassy again. Exhausted, humiliated, and unwilling to cooperate, he refused to speak to me much less meet my eye. I placed my hand over his.

"You need to drink something," I said simply.

He wouldn't look at me as I pressed the glass to his lips. His eyes blinked rapidly as he gulped down the contents, ignoring the blood that trailed from his damaged lower lip.

"Would you like more?" I asked once he finished the first glass.

He stared straight ahead and inhaled to keep from sobbing. I decided to fill his glass again, as I would rather have offered him too much water than not give him enough.

"Hold still," I whispered as I wiped the blood from his lips and dried the tracks of tears on his left cheek. He watched me from the corner of his eye, his posture perfectly straight. I didn't know if I hurt him or if he merely didn't enjoy how I treated him.

"Your mouth is bloody," I said. I showed him the towel I used but he didn't look at it. He continued to stare at me. "Let me see your teeth."

They were still there, I discovered. Fortunately, he hadn't loosened any of his teeth, but his lips were swollen and split open, his chin and jaw bruised. He'd sustained quite a beating. Far worse, I was afraid, than I had originally anticipated.

We sat in silence for a while as I washed the blood away from his mouth. As the seconds passed I found my former experience as a nurse settle into place. I'd been a girl of only fourteen years when I held my mother's hand and followed her into the hospitals. I'd seen men with their legs freshly amputated, their faces torn apart in the midst of warfare. The injuries Erik had sustained in the alley were incomparable. He was bruised and bloodied, but he hadn't been torn apart. Fortunate, I thought to myself. I doubted he would agree.

I glanced up and found him still staring at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but if his mind worked as mine did then he was thinking about the alley and what had led him to this fate.

"Did you see her?" I asked suddenly.

It took a moment for him to reply. "Who?" he asked.

As if he had no idea of whom I spoke. I glared back at him. "Christine. The vicomte's wife."

He sighed in disgust. "Yes."

"You found a way into her hotel room?" I asked. He had started to tremble as I dragged a wet rag along his flesh.

"I followed him inside."

I decided that I wanted to hear Erik say the names for himself. Perhaps I thought it would bring clarity to a seemingly ignorant man. "Who did you follow?" I asked.

"Who do you think?" he snapped.

I pulled my hand away. It was terrible of me to pursue an argument when I knew he was miserable.

"Her husband," Erik admitted at last. He no longer looked at me as he answered. I wasn't sure if it was a breakthrough or a setback.

"He didn't see you?" I continued.

"He was drinking," Erik mumbled.

Ah, the reason behind such brutality. I thought about the vicomte who had shown himself at the end of the alley while Alex and I retrieved Erik. He could have easily finished what he had started, but he had chosen to walk away. I wondered if he had sobered and regretted his actions, or if he was unwilling to beat a man while a woman and child were present.

He was an aristocrat, however, and I couldn't imagine his polite society looking favorably upon man who had nearly beaten another to death. Did this vicomte think of Erik as a man, I wondered? Erik made it difficult for others to endure his company. The devil was most certainly on my shoulder as I continued to clean his face, exposing several scrapes and cuts along the left side of his face.

Eventually Erik closed his eyes and I allowed him a moment of undisturbed rest. I sat with him for almost an hour and held his hand in mine. I fought to keep myself from crying. All I wanted to do was sit with him, to hold onto him even if he didn't know I was there.

He mumbled to himself as he slept in the wheelchair. His hand clutched mine as he muttered to himself, his words mostly incoherent. I understood his nightmares well enough, as he had fallen asleep in the parlor enough times for me to understand one aspect of his life well: He knew cruelty. A dozen times before I had heard him beg his father to stop. He never said what, but it was perfectly clear in my eyes. In his dreams he showed weakness I never would have known.

Gently I touched his cheek to rouse him.

"You should lie down," I told him. He blinked at me, startled to find me beside him. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. "Let me help you into bed."

He seemed more ashamed than anything and resisted my assistance.

He fought me yet again, but he was far too exhausted to continue for long. Once he was on the bed—a trial of my patience in and of itself—I removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket.

For the moment I had Erik as content as he would allow.

It would not last.


	15. Beyond a Mask

A/N I sincerely hope this answers your questions and does justice to what I'm sure some of you anticipated. This was so much harder from Julia's POV than Erik's. Please review and tell me what you think. I'd love to know your thoughts!

Julia14

Originally I had no intention of disturbing Erik for the remainder of the night. My hope was that a night of rest would bring him peace, allow him to heal.

For an hour I lay awake and heard him thrashing about in the guest room. My heart pounded and my eyes popped open when I heard him shout. It nearly frightened me to death, as I hadn't any idea what was wrong.

Lissy was standing at her bedroom door when I walked into the hall and donned my robe. She didn't blink as she stared at me.

"Who is that, Mother?" she whispered.

"It's Alex's father." My words appeared to calm her.

"He's in the guest room?"

"Yes, he is, Lissy. You must return to your room and I'll check on Monsieur Kire."

"But, Mama, why isn't he at home with Alex? Is Alex still angry with him?"

I ran my hand over her hair. "Monsieur Kire had a terrible fall, Lissy. He's not feeling well."

"Oh, how terrible," she gasped.

"Very terrible. You must be a good girl and return to your bed. Is that understood?"

"Do you think Monsieur Kire will be well again?"

"We can only hope."

She gave a solemn nod before she turned. "You will make him well again, won't you, Mama?"

I smiled wanly at her. "I will do what I can for him."

If he would allow it, I told myself as I walked downstairs.

When I entered the guest room I couldn't tell if Erik was awake or asleep. I watched him by the faint lamp light. His eyes were partially open, his arms straight, body stiff.

"I touched her," he said through his teeth, "before you ever did."

It angered me that he still dreamt of Christine. As I chewed on the inside of my cheek I had half the mind to leave him alone. He didn't insult me; I insulted myself.

His breathing turned erratic and I feared he would go into shock. Without a second thought I entered the guest room and sat beside him. His left eye, which was swollen shut opened and I swear he looked at me.

I almost spoke but his eye rolled shut and his muscles loosened. Ever so silently he began to weep. My only reaction was to cry with him and hope he fell into a deep sleep. I still didn't know if he was awake or asleep, dreaming or hallucinating.

"Oh, Julia," he muttered. "Oh, Julia."

"Sleep, Erik." I begged him. My eyes felt raw, my mind exhausted. I had hoped he would sleep at least until I cooked Lisette's breakfast and sent her to play with Alex for a few hours.

Blood ran in a thin trail from beneath his mask down to his temple. It collected in his hair and slowly dripped onto the pillow. How he had begun to bleed once more was beyond me, but I feared he would turn anemic and bleed to death before morning. It frightened me, this beating he had taken. I feared he had injuries to his internal organs and his insides would fill with blood and poison him. I worried that perhaps he had cracked a rib, or his hand was broken, or he had a concussion—that his incoherent babbling would turn to convulsions.

I scurried down the hall and retrieved a fresh basin of water, boric acid, and clean towels. When I returned to the room he was becoming restless again.

As gently as I could I opened his shirt and placed a damp rag on his bruised chest. He exhaled and reached for my arm, which he held briefly, his thumb caressing the underside of my wrist.

"Julia," he whispered. He licked blood from his lips.

"I'm here. Relax, Erik. Just relax."

Once he was still again I washed away the blood on his mask. I couldn't see how badly he was wounded and knew I needed to remove the covering, but I was certain he would fight me every step of the way.

"Erik?"

He made no reply. He inhaled deeply, a sure sign that he had fallen asleep. Grateful, I placed my hand gently on the left side of his face and whispered to him, "I'm sorry."

It was impossible to keep from disturbing him. Before I had managed to grab hold of the mask he turned his face away and let out the most terrified yelp I had ever heard.

"Don't."

My throat tightened. I couldn't do this to him, make him so uncomfortable. But I had to do it. I couldn't leave him like this, a bloody mess.

"The cuts. Erik, please, I have to clean the cuts. You need a compress on your bruises."

He didn't protest, which I considered his consent. He groaned, his breaths coming faster, his chest heaving.

"Don't."

I pried my finger beneath his mask and the blood, which had been trapped underneath, poured out. "Tell me if this hurts."

"It hurts."

He made it worse by his actions. I knew he was in pain, but I was also hurting. It was a terrible sight to see him virtually helpless, in need of someone to care for him yet completely unwilling to allow it.

"Erik, stop it," I said firmly.

"Get out of here. Right this damn minute, get out of here."

"Please, be still."

"Don't." He inhaled sharply. "Please don't look at this."

He went limp as I placed one knee on the bed and swiftly wiped away the blood. I peeled the mask from his face and he grunted, a feral noise I'd never heard any man, woman, or child make. My heart broke for him. Eyes closed, I prayed that he would forgive me for this, for doing what I knew was right. I loved him too much to leave his side.

The mask dangled in my hand, still covering part of his face. I hadn't realized that a band held it in place beneath his hair, as it was cleverly concealed. When I began to remove it, he grabbed my arm and squeezed tightly.

"That hurts," I said under my breath, uncertain of whether my admission of pain would stop him.

His grasp loosened and I held his hand in mine, lacing my fingers with his swollen, scraped fingers.

"Don't look at this." His voice trembled as he turned away and unmasked himself.

Tears flowed from his eyes. He lay on his side and drew his knees toward his chest.

I kept one hand on his shoulder while I cleaned away the blood. My voice low, I cooed to him, coaxed him with promises that I would care for him. He merely needed to lay still.

"God, no," he sobbed. He brought his hand briefly to his face. Then, despite the swelling, he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it on the mattress.

I couldn't move. He growled through his teeth and lashed about one last time before he exhausted himself. With his protest ended, I turned up the lamp. Carefully, I examined and treated the cuts and scrapes to his face.

Wounds to the face and head bleed worse than they do on arms and legs. His face bore another mask,of his own blood,which followed the exact shape of his mask. A cut to the side of his nose and another to the forehead had coated his damaged flesh.

He winced each time I ran the rag along his cheek, whimpered each time I dabbed at his brow. I felt as though I had defeated him, stolen every ounce of his manhood. It was never my intention to harm him. I found myself unable to speak, barely able to breathe. I felt very cruel and callous knowing how uncomfortable I made him. But it was necessary if I wanted him to survive.

I wanted to remind him that we were lovers, friends, but I was keenly aware that we were still strangers in this aspect. It bothered me immensely; we knew one another intimately and yet I had never seen his full face. All of these years…and this was how we knew one another.

"Worthless," he muttered.

"Hold still."

"Beast," he muttered. "Is this what you wanted to see, Madame Seuratti?" he growled.

His expression changed, the lines in face deepened and he gritted his teeth. Part of me had prepared for his anger, but not nearly enough.

"Are you not yet fully disgusted?"

"Hold still. I don't want to get this in your eye," I whispered in an attempt to soothe him.

He brushed my hand away and I dropped the blood-soaked rag beside him on the pillow. His hand trembled as he covered his face, his fingers running over his cheek to his temple as though he wished to hide the worst of his deformity. I began to wonder if he truly protected himself or if he thought he protected me.

"Erik."

He turned his head until his cheek touched the pillow, which smeared blood and water against my crisp white linens. It seemed to cause him great pain as his nostrils flared and he inhaled sharply.

"Don't look at it. Please don't look at any of it."

It seemed no matter how many times I cleaned his forehead the blood still returned.

"Erik, please," I started. I wanted to tell him that if he remained still it would be over faster,but we were far beyond reasoning.

"Leave me alone. Just leave me alone." He went silent. His mouth was open and he sighed. He'd either passed out or fallen asleep.

And then I saw it, the deep gash which was hidden beneath his hairpiece. Pursing my lips, I felt the brim of tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

What had Christine's husband done to him? The cut was thin and straight, which made me wonder if someone had pulled a knife during the fight. My God, he could have been stabbed and I hadn't yet discovered the knife wound.

While he rested I quickly opened his overcoat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. His white shirt was muddy but it appeared he had not been stabbed. One less injury to worry about.

My fears ebbed just as Erik woke with a start. His hands gripped the mattress and his face contorted with what I assumed was a fresh wave of pain.

"I'm still here," I said gently. I ran my thumb along his ear, the only part of him that wasn't bruised or bleeding.

He gave no audible reaction. His lips trembled, though it appeared he made an attempt to smile.

"Erik, listen to me. There's a cut which needs to be stitched. It looks fairly deep and it may take a moment before I have you sewn up properly. Please, just hold still and I'll do it quickly."

I took his hand in mine and ran my thumb over his knuckles. His skin felt cold to the touch and I considered retrieving another blanket, but I looked at his face again and saw the wound continued to bleed.

"Erik, the wound goes into your hairline."

My words took a moment to register. Unfortunately it was in his moment of calm that I placed my fingers beneath the hairpiece and gently searched for the band. He went from perfectly calm to panic-stricken in seconds.

Blinded and disoriented, he held onto the top of his head with one hand and swung wildly with the other. He hit me in the ribs and I stood, attempting to grab his arm before he hit his hand on the side table or punched me in the jaw.

In his anger he screamed for me to stop. He fought so hard that he managed to open his right eye and glare at me. The look in his eye reminded me of the time I had seen a carriage horse at the mercy of a frustrated young man. The boy took to the horse with his cane and whipped the animal several times on the back flank while he held tight to the reins. The animal looked petrified, betrayed by its caretaker.

"Erik, stop it! For God's sake, please." I could no longer tolerate his combative nature. My hands and clothes were covered in his blood and I feared he'd hurt us both. Worse still: I didn't want Lisette to hear me fighting with Erik. She still held memories of her father, whom she still questioned me about on occasion.

His arms turned limp and he finally relented. He looked at me still, his aggravation turned to remorse. I felt the tug on the bed sheets as I sat beside him. He balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes. With one final sob he gave in and his chin lowered to his chest. Like a horse gone lame, he no longer had the will to fight. At least for a moment.

"Hold still," I murmured because I couldn't stand the silence. "I'm sorry if this hurts, Erik. The cut…be still."

I had always known he wore a hairpiece. His hair was always the same length and color. Despite his age there was not a single gray hair on his head. He rarely allowed me to touch his hair and I was never permitted to place my hand on his face, though I had on occasion. It was impossible not to caress his cheek when we made love, to desire another level of intimacy. There were a great many boundaries in our relationship and I crossed one or two in the five years we had known one another.

My concern was that the skin had split open, and as I removed his hairpiece I discovered that it traveled an inch into his hairline, the thin cut I had originally seen much worse beneath his hairpiece. At some point during the beating—as I was certain it was never a fight—it must have been removed or it had shifted.

"It hurts," he mumbled. "It hurts terribly."

I bathed his forehead and scalp, oblivious to the sight he most certainly thought captured my attention. He needed my care far more than he needed ridicule, and given the time I had devoted to him over the years I never hoped to remove his mask or his hairpiece as humiliation.

What I wanted was for him to allow me to remove that which kept him guarded, to allow me a moment to prove the depth of our bond, our relationship. I hoped, in so doing, it would lead to a much more fulfilling life together.

And then the fair was announced and what I wanted was placed on a high shelf while what Erik wanted became his only priority.

He beat his fists on the mattress one last time before he broke down in tears. I had finished the first package of sutures after a long and messy battle to stop the bleeding. The cool cloth I held over his head was now warm and no longer kept the swelling down, and even though I could have returned to the kitchen or water closet for fresh water and towels, I knew it was best not to leave him alone.

Exhausted, upset, and uncertain if I could save him, I began to cry as well. It felt as though all of our time together had never existed. The man I had fallen in love with had perished long before this day. I missed him, hoped he would return, and feared he had never existed in the first place. Perhaps in my loneliness and desire to have a man in my life and in my bed I had led myself to believe that Erik was meant for me. I no longer knew up from down, especially at the end of this night.

"I hate you," he muttered. I sobbed harder and opened the second package of sutures. Dutifully I scrubbed my hands and waited for him to hold still. "I hate everything about you."

His final words haunted me for quite some time.


	16. Hands and Healing

Julia15

Erik was the most stubborn, self-centered, and arrogant man I had ever known. He was also the most insecure and loyal. Only his loyalty endeared him to me. It brought me to the threshold of the guestroom where he remained in a miserable state of half-sleep.

I watched him and wondered why he was so taken by this woman. What had she given him that I couldn't? As I smoothed the blanket over his chest, I wondered if she was worth this suffering. Most certainly she wasn't worth my pain.

Unable to sleep, I returned to the guest room and placed a compress over his eyes. When he stirred I ran my hand gently over his chest.

"Kimmer," he whispered.

"Julia," I whispered back. He immediately fell asleep and stayed quiet for quite some time.

I'd often wondered if Kimmer were another name for Christine. Once in a while he would murmur the single word in his sleep. Whatever it meant or whomever it was he called to it always brought peace to fitful dreams.

Afraid to leave his side, I slept in the chair beside his bed for a while before I heard Lissy call for me. With one last look at Erik, I left the room, walked upstairs and kissed my daughter's forehead.

"How is Alexandre's father?" Her eyes refused to stay open.

"He's asleep."

She hugged me tightly. "Oh, Mommy, Alex will be so happy his father is well."

"Yes, I suspect he will be quite pleased. Now rest yourself a while longer, Lissy. Mommy is quite tired."

I doubted she heard my final words. She made me proud, this caring little girl. Her father had certainly shown her little compassion. Clearly she had found it on her own.

At last I curled up in my bed and stared at the ceiling. It had been several hours and Erik had exhausted me, and I prayed he wouldn't give me a moment of trouble. I had my doubts that even with his injuries he could lay still.

Later in the day Madame Giry arrived and we spoke briefly at the front door. Though we spoke in hushed voices I knew that if he were awake he'd listen to every word we said. She was terribly distraught over her missing son, whom I'd always known she loved dearly. Their relationship had never made much sense to me as it seemed Madame was always concerned about his well-being and wanted the best for him, yet Erik seemed to resent her doting. He didn't want anyone to care for him—except that dreadful Christine de Chagny.

I offered to wake Erik on Madame's behalf but she wouldn't have it. She shook her head and closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, which she immediately brushed away.

"He needs his rest," she said in a voice so low I could barely hear her. "He must heal."

"And he will."

No one would keep him from healing,save Erik himself. While he continued to remain quiet I left him alone and changed bed sheets. Lissy offered to help me in the kitchen, and as I removed the linens from her room I asked her to beat eggs for me.

It wasn't long before Erik disrupted the uneasy peace within my home. I heard him cursing to himself, which was followed by Lisette's voice, softly praying for his forgiveness. He balanced precariously on my nerves.

"Where is the compress?" I asked as I walked into the room.

"The floor," he snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. I couldn't tell if the swelling was from the injuries, as it looked as though he had been crying.

Immediately he looked away from me and issued orders. A towel and something for the pain were first on his list. He didn't say it, but I knew he wanted his mask returned at once.

He should have known me well enough to understand that I didn't readily listen to his demands. As demur as possible, I walked to his bedside and handed him the towel that had lain across his knee. I turned and retrieved the compress, which had collected a bit of dust. After all the trouble I had gone through to make him comfortable, he had shown resistance. It shouldn't have surprised me, but nonetheless I wasn't pleased.

I turned toward him and frowned. He looked fit to be tied as he draped the towel over his face.

"Oh, Erik."

"Are you satisfied now?"

How I wanted to hold him close and tell him I loved him, but the urge to slap him across the face and hope sense would at last fill his thick skull was also quite tempting. It took me a long moment to gather my wits and respond to his question.

"I left some pillows earlier. If you can sit up—"

His eyes hardened, his glare bore straight through me. I'd never seen him incensed, but I knew I no longer dealt with the Erik I knew. This was the man who had been the Phantom of the Opera. This was the agonized soul who had lived in solitude. For one brief moment I feared him.

"Answer me. Now. Right now. Answer me. Is this what you wanted? Does this satisfy you at last?"

He was furious, but as his lips twisted and he gripped the bed sheets I knew he was not the same man I had grown to adore over the years. Night by night—possibly crumpet by crumpet—I had managed to peel back the layers and find a loving but guarded individual. The man unable to move from the guest bed was raw. He'd hidden more than his face from me. He'd hidden his true feelings…for himself.

It broke my heart to see him in this manner. He didn't want to show it to others but he was a good man. I poured him a cup of water and stared at the glass, my mind elsewhere. It reminded me of the day Alex had brought Bessie home. That "damned dog" needed food and water, that "damned dog" needed to be let out every hour of every day. That "damned dog" shed on the furniture—including his pillow. Only Luc Testan could upset him, but now he had a dog in his house which he told me at least a dozen times that he wouldn't keep her.

"She's so round I could sell her as a hog," he'd said under his breath.

The next night he took her for a walk. From my window I watched him scoop her up and carry her over a puddle. Damned dog, indeed, I thought to myself.

Silently I brought the cup of water to his lips but he refused. With my thoughts on our past he was tolerable.

"You need your rest."

"I said answer me."

Once I placed the cup down, I scratched my head and sighed. He looked utterly ridiculous with a towel covering half of his head.

"Did I want to see you bleeding and beaten near death in an alley? No, Erik, I didn't want to see this. Why would I want…?"

I couldn't finish speaking. I wanted my composer and closest friend returned, not this shell I had tolerated for a year.

"Did you do this?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He knocked several fresh towels to the ground as he grabbed his mask and shook it at me. His body trembled with rage, his eyes wild. The expression on his face was nothing compared to his usual irritation when he spoke of the newspaper or my uncle's reviews. I sat further away from him and gripped the arms of the chair.

"Did you do this so you would know?"

"Know what?" Experience had taught me to speak softly and wait for the storm to pass. As much as it pained me, I thought of Louis. The more I argued with him the worse the aftermath. Complacent, I said to myself. Silent and complacent.

"Everything!" He slammed his mask on the table and hit his knuckles. Blood splattered onto the side table and the water basin, but he ignored it. I doubt he felt it.

He removed the towel from his face and leaned toward me. He rotated his neck as though he wished to sicken me with the sight of his features, but I didn't blink. He'd injured himself in his outburst. My only concern was infection.

"Everything!"

Like a deer eluding prey I sat very still and hoped he wouldn't notice me. There was nothing to be done. He needed to calm himself, to exhaust himself. Once he was able to see I meant him no harm he would listen.

He swiftly lost momentum, and his rage ended with a whimper. Suddenly more ashamed than angry, he stared at his knees and shook his head.

At last I hoped he would let me in as he had for so many years.

"Let me care for you," I whispered. My finger ran over his forehead where the stitches had busted and his skin was bruised and swollen. Blood ran in thin trails down his temples and between his eyes. "You've stretched your new stitches."

He blinked several times and blood ran down his forehead, past his brow. He inhaled sharply, the pain registering at last. The color drained from his face.

"Hold still," I told him as I reached for a wash cloth.

"Just leave me."

Three words had never held more despair. I couldn't bring myself to look at him for a long moment. My gaze was trained on my hands. Leave him. I couldn't ever leave him, no matter what. He hadn't left me.

I thought of how my hands had once pushed against my husband's chest. How these hands had once stretched out to block my daughter's room—and how they had carried a terrified child to the cellar. These hands had now set to repair physically. He needed much more than I could over.

From the corner of my eye I saw him bring his hand to his face. His head lowered, chin almost to his chest.

"It's over," he whispered. "Leave me."

"I can't."

I saw him shiver. He hadn't shut me out, not completely.


	17. Our Arrangement

Gentle readers: Julia would like you to know how good it is to finally tell all of Erik's loyal readers the real truth, not the Kire Truth. She would also like to remind you that if you can't get enough of Erik you should check out the "Giver of Life" stories, which will answer questions as to who "Kimmer" is and what it means.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Julia16

He appeared devastated by my words and lowered his eyes. One hand rose to steady the towel he insisted keeping over his face to hide his scars. Again he transformed, turned from pitiful to angered in a matter of seconds. This time, however, his wrath had lessened and his outburst was half-hearted. He was losing his will to continue at this pace. I'd endured the worst—or so I thought.

"Yes, you can, Julia. Put the rag down and leave. If this is to be my room then leave me in it."

His tone belied his words. He couldn't bear another moment by himself. It gave him too much time to think, which is why he continued to argue. I was certain that he needed to be angered by someone in order to ignore himself and his self-deprecation.

"Your son will be staying here soon. I imagine you heard Madame when she paid a visit earlier." Alarm flashed through his eyes. I had known he would protest. "I have no other room. He must stay with you."

"He is not allowed in here. Do you understand me? I won't have him in this room."

Irritated, I sat back. "Where will he stay, hmm?"

"It's your house."

"Why, thank you."

"Find a place for him or send him back to Madeline."

His callousness took me by surprise. "He's your son."

"What of it?" His gaze flashed to the bedside table.

And then I understood why he remained so adamant. The mask was removed and he was laid bare not only before my eyes, but before the eyes of his son. He feared what Alex would think of him.

"Oh, Erik. There is more to love than appearances." My gaze rested on the portrait of my broken family. I hated the artist who had painted our portrait. He captured far too much of my pain and all of Louis' intolerance. I couldn't bear to look at Lisette's painted eyes in fear of what I might find.

"Kindness, for one," I whispered.

Neither of us spoke as I dipped a clean towel into the water basin and gently squeezed it out. I took my time, enjoyed the silence we had between us. I thought of the nights in my parlor as we shared tea and dessert, how pleasant it was to sit and watch the embers pop and listen to him breathe. Over the years we had discovered it was enough to sit together for a while, conversation sprinkled throughout the night. I wondered if he felt it too, the easiness and comfort I wanted returned to us.

Once I squeezed out the water and had my needle prepared, I looked him in the eye and discovered him quietly watching me. Protest showed in his straightened lips well before words left his mouth.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

"Your wounds will become infected if I don't."

"Why do you care?"

_I love you_ hung loosely on my lips but he spoke before I could tell him.

"We have nothing. Nothing."

His words barely registered in my mind. My reaction was instinctual as there was no longer an opportunity to think with my heart.

"But we did."

"No, we didn't."

"Erik, we had a relationship for how many years?"

His nostrils flared. Blessed silence replaced a conversation I didn't want to have with him. I saw him contemplate his next words and I braced myself, knowing the worst was yet to come.

"Erik—"

"We never had a relationship," he snapped.

Another blow which barely registered. Repeatedly I told myself this wasn't worth it—he wasn't worth it. Yet still I remained by his bedside, unable to make myself leave. I wanted to hear him say the words, to tell me exactly how he felt about me, about the years we'd spent together. I wanted him to say how he'd lied each time he'd allowed a smile to escape, each time a chuckle found its way free from his mouth. I wanted him to look me in the eye and tell me I didn't matter to him, that he'd merely stayed with me while he waited for Christine.

He looked terrified when I sat back and folded my hands in my lap. No longer was I his nurse. I was a woman who desired answers, and I would not leave until he told me what I didn't want to hear.

"Then what was it?"

It took him a moment to muster the courage and continue to break my heart.

"An arrangement," he answered at last.

"An arrangement?" It wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected. Yes, we had arranged to meet. I could survive this answer.

"And nothing more."

"For your benefit?" I arched a brow.

"I'm a virile man."

I nodded, almost amused by his words. Naturally it was for his benefit. The most important person in Erik's life was Erik. His was a strange combination of being in love with himself yet hating everything he saw in the mirror.

"Why else?" he snapped.

With a sigh I glanced away. "Then to you I am nothing more than a whore?"

"No," he said. I held my breath, waited for him to say how much he loved me—cared for me. But he didn't say he loved, cared, or had any feelings for me. His silence disturbed me and I met his eye.

"I never had to pay you," he finished.

My insides thickened, my blood stewed. I felt him staring at me, guessed there was more on his mind he would never, ever allow a voice. He'd said enough to me to last a lifetime. More than enough. I glanced at the portrait again, realized all of my bruises had healed. I could look at that face, that handsome, strong face, and not fear him a moment longer. Apathy replaced what I'd once felt for Louis.

What would replace my feelings for Erik?

If I knew anything at all it was that he would not linger on my mind. I wouldn't allow him to rule my life. Gaze fixed on the water basin, I wrung out my cloth again and tended to his forehead.

He didn't say a word to me for the remainder of the time I sat at his bedside. His lips trembled the moment my fingers touched his forehead, and a tear slipped down his cheek as I blotted spots of blood from between his eyes. As he had done to me, I ignored his feelings, turned away from his emotions.

"You careless, cowardly bastard," I wanted to scream at him. "How dare you seek refuge in my home and treat me in this manner."

He pulled away suddenly and I wasn't sure if my words had escaped or if I'd hurt him with the needle.

"Hold still," I said under my breath.

Another tear fell down his bruised cheek. He may have regretted his words, but he couldn't take them back. He wouldn't take them back. We both knew it.

Once I finished cleaning his wounds I poured him a glass of water. It wasn't until I rose to my feet that I had words for him.

"I doubt anyone has ever told you before. I can't imagine why anyone would want to speak with you, you're so damned condescending toward anyone who dare think anything of you." I gathered the bloodied towels and the water basin. "As much as I would rather not, I care for you and I want you to know something: There is something much worse than being ugly on the outside. I could look at you with indifference as long as you never spoke to me again."

The tears threatened at last but I looked him in the eye and hoped to God he would see how much I struggled to remain civil, how much he'd hurt me.

"If you were not in such terrible pain I would never forgive you for what you said to me." I glanced at the portrait again. Erik still meant more to me than Louis. In time, I wondered if I could forget him. A tear fell down my cheek but I ignored it. "No one has ever hurt me the way you just did, Erik. I'll remember what you said for as long as I live."

"Oh, God," he said under his breath. His regret had come too late. I no longer wished to see him, either masked or unmasked. It wasn't the sight of him that sickened me, it was the thought of his words.

"God knows why, but I'm warming broth for you. If you're awake in an hour, I'll have Alex bring it to you." Pausing, I sighed to keep from crying. "Along with something for the pain."

A strangled scream left his lips. He muttered under his breath, begged me to stay with him a moment longer. Anything I did, anything I said, would be for his benefit, not mine. It was my choice—it had always been my choice—to do for him or to do for myself.

I dried my eyes and turned.

"I'll regret what I said for as long as I live."

"Because it's only about how you feel in the end, isn't it? Erik, go back to sleep."

"No, wait," he pleaded. "I'll regret it because I do love you. I've always loved you."

For a moment we stared at each other. I waited for him to beg me to stay, but as I searched his eyes I realized I had no desire to hear him beg. Pleading was the game he played with Christine, and I had no desire to lower myself to her level.

"You know lust, you know obsession, and you know how to keep yourself guarded, but love? You don't know love. Neither of us do. That's why our 'arrangement' worked so well."

"Julie—"

He sobbed my name. No, I told myself, not this time. I won't give into him this time. He was strong enough to argue, he was strong enough to remain alone. I closed the door with my foot and wondered if I was strong enough to endure his presence and the death of our relationship.


	18. To Dream of Butterflies

NDBRS: There are a few changes from the BB.

Every so often I write a chapter I'm immensely excited and proud to publish. This is one of those chapters. Readers beware of content about 2/3 of the way through. I hope when you read this that you experience the emotions I felt in getting into Julia's mind—and appreciate her all the more.

Julia17

Dream of Butterflies

Lisette asked if she could help Meg in the garden, which I allowed simply because I didn't want her to see what I had become. The moment I heard the back door close I burst into tears and curled up in bed, trembling with anguish. I wasn't sure if I pitied myself or Erik. Suddenly we both seemed deserving. 

At last, when the house was silent and I felt quite alone, I crawled from bed and decided to busy myself. I opened the top dresser drawer and paused. Bound together with a string were several pieces of paper, with one edge smooth and one edge torn and ragged.

Years ago, after I had first met Erik and found myself content, I had decided to make a habit of erasing all the harm Louis had done not only to me, but also to my daughter. Eventually she would inherit and hopefully cherish the leather-bound journal that had taken me from my late teens into my twenties. 

My hope was that it would keep us close, even when I was no longer with her. I wished my mother had done this for me, as I missed her terribly still, and I hoped Lissy and I would be as close as my mother and I had been. 

But in my life there were too many moments I had no desire to share with my only child. Indeed she would remember the callousness and cruelty of her father, but I didn't want her to relive it page by page. Perhaps I wished to lie to her, though I saw it as protection. And so, with a heavy heart, I ripped out several pages. These I stuffed into my dresser, secretly kept in my possession as though I needed a reminder of our past.

Downstairs Erik mumbled to himself and I ignored him. His voice was strained, his emotions curled around each word he spoke to himself. It knifed through me to think of him as I sat down on the bed and untied the string holding the memories of my physical pain. Erik now rivaled Louis as the keeper of my emotional agony. Suddenly they seemed like the same man. 

I didn't need to read what I had scribbled down years ago. Some moments would remain clear no matter how much time had passed, and yet still I unfolded the page and looked at the date. 

It was after I had met Erik and invited him into my home. A new man had unintentionally delivered old nightmares for my daughter. She merely heard me speak his name and her face went white as a sheet. She asked me one night at supper if I would lock her bedroom door when she went to sleep so that no one could hurt her. I had forgotten what her bad dreams had resurrected in me as well. 

-o-

It was exactly a week before he died. Louis was supposed to see Lissy to bed for the night. My head had throbbed all day from a vicious cold, and I had begged him to take her to the nursery and simply rock her to sleep. She craved his affection despite his usual harsh tone. He was her father, and despite his actions she wanted to love him. 

It surprised me when he agreed to stay with her. In my heart I hoped he would finally show her he could be a good man. In my mind, however, I was worried. 

For a long while I tossed and turned in bed, my eyelids heavy yet unable to stay closed. I forced myself to picture them wrapped in a quilt, rocking back and forth. It was a sweet though false image, broken at last by the sound of Lisette crying.

"Quiet, you stupid little brat," Louis spit.

His words immediately brought me to my feet. Heedless of my pain, I stormed into the nursery and found her sprawled on the floor, tears streaming down her tiny face.

"Why is she crying?"

Louis waved me off. He moved his leg as though he would kick her but stopped himself. "She won't sleep."

I scooped her into my arms and felt her tremble. Her nose was running and her forehead fevered. She'd caught my cold, which had most likely made her too miserable to sleep. I turned toward Louis with the intention of telling him I'd see her to sleep as I normally did, but I stopped and stared at him.

His hand was bloody.

"What happened?"

"You take care of her." He stood and stormed past me.

As I cradled Lisette, I felt a trickle of wetness down her leg and I sighed. She was potty trained, but once in a while she still had her accidents. It had become a habit of hers to bite me when I discovered she'd wet herself.

"My sweet girl. You are miserable, aren't you?" I asked as I prepared to change her clothes.

I lifted her nightdress and discovered blood trickling down the inside of her leg. Several times I blinked, barely able to comprehend the source of her injury. I looked at her face and she averted her eyes. 

"Lissy," I whispered.

"No, mommy," she whispered when I tried to pull her legs apart. 

What happened inside of me at that moment felt like a clock striking midnight. The day had changed, my fear was gone. I kissed her forehead and embraced her so tightly I hoped I could repair her. 

"Close your eyes, my dear," I cooed in perfect calm. "Dream of butterflies."

"Dream of butterflies?"

"Yes." I lay down beside her and held her hand. "Remember how they flutter, their paths jumbled. They look so silly, don't they?"

She nodded and we giggled, our mirth barely covering darker emotions. I hummed to her, managed to hold my tears at bay. She needed me to remain calm, to show her everything could be normal—normal for us.

And then we heard it, the sweetest sound in the world. A violin in the night, alone yet comforting. We snuggled up together and concentrated on a different time, a different place. Thank God for that violin, which soothed us, allowed us a moment of peace in our newfound hell.

"Who is playing the violin?" she asked, her voice groggy.

"That little boy's father. Alexandre, remember."

"Yes, I remember."

I held her and kissed her until she fell asleep with dried blood on her legs and nightmares that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Rising to my feet, I looked through her bedroom window at the house behind ours and pressed my hand to the glass. The man, who sat near his own window, tipped his head forward as though he thanked me for listening. 

"Thank you, violinist," I whispered. 

Then I left the nursery, rage filling my veins as I approached the parlor where Louis had retreated. Night after night I had struggled to remain quiet, to appease him with a lowered voice. Tonight I would make no excuses or apologies for him. All of Paris would know what he was and how I despised him.

My rage was uncontainable. I closed the parlor door, walked up to his chair, and slapped him several times in the face. When he rose and grabbed me by the wrists I kicked his shins. Spit gathered at the corner of my mouth, tears pooled in my eyes. I called him every terrible name I knew, every name he'd called me over the years.

An elbow to the face stunned me and I hit the wall and then the floor. Just as I knew he would, he towered over me and promised to repay my efforts with damage of his own. I didn't care what he did to me. I'd failed the only person I loved: My daughter.

"You're disgusting," I said through my bloodied teeth. "She's your child—your daughter! How could you do this to her?"

"Me? This is your fault." He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. His hand balled into a fist but I didn't flinch and he didn't hit me.

"How dare you—"

"You're loose," he spat in my face. He'd been drinking again. I could smell it on his clothes and on his breath. "Used up like a filthy whore. I could stick my whole hand into you and spread my fingers."

His words made me sick to my stomach. Slowly I started to double over. "She's only a child, Louis. She's not even five years old yet."

He grunted and released me. Why he didn't beat me I had no idea, but I suppose he did with his words.

"Then she'll be tight a while longer, won't she?"

There he left me. Instead of staying in the parlor I rose and followed him, making certain he stayed away from my daughter. Without his coat or hat he stumbled into the darkness, leaving the door wide open and me on my knees.

Heedless to the invitation I'd given our neighbors, I allowed them to eavesdrop on my home. The bushes outside rustled, frightened me to death that some dog would run in and attack me. Later, I would wonder if it was a ghost—or a man—come to protect me.

I wobbled to my feet and closed the door, crying harder than before. Louis would hurt her again. My baby, my angel, my sweet little girl would suffer at his hands. I feared standing up to her father, feared taking her away…and dreaded what would happen if I tolerated his cruelty.

I refused to let him touch her. He'd have to kill me first.

When I could catch my breath I went into Lisette's room and put a chair in front of her door. I snuggled in beside her and closed my eyes. As though he knew he was needed, Erik started to play again. He put me to sleep, gave me dreams of butterflies, allowed me a few hours of peace.

-o-

The following day I took her out for the day. We spent two hours at the park forgetting the night, another hour in the market smelling spices and flowers. We watched ladies try on different hats, laughed at a man and his dogs that could jump through hoops.

At the end of our day we found ourselves in my cousin's bakery. He took one look at me and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Don't return there."

"I must."

"Why?"

I wasn't quite sure. "Because he's my husband. Anthony, please don't be ridiculous."

"You're frightened. A woman shouldn't be frightened of her husband."

"I'm fine. A little tired, but I'll be fine."

He only had to look at me and tears filled my eyes.

"Julie—"

"He'll come for me. And when he does…"

He looked from me to Lisette and sighed. She was entertained by a young girl named Elizabeth Kimmer, who worked for Anthony. She was a black-haired beauty I always thought he kept employed because of her smile and pale blue eyes.

"Have her stay with my mother and father, at least." He practically begged me.

"They'd hand her to her father the moment I left their doorstep." It was the Seuratti way, to look out for their blood.

"Then stay here a while longer," he offered. "Please, Julia, I cannot stand this a moment longer. I want you to think this over. I could help you—"

"Only an hour more and then I must have supper on the table." No one could help me. It was the only part of my life which held certainty. I was trapped, my feet and hands bound, my mouth gagged by my own fear.

Anthony kissed me on the cheek and embraced me tightly. "You take care of yourself. I don't care what he says, you come here or my home and tell me when you need anything at all. He can't watch you every hour of every day."

His words humiliated me. I nodded so he wouldn't worry.

-o-

Lissy returned unexpectedly to the house and ran up the stairs.

"M. Kire is awake."

"He-he is?"

She nodded. "He woke when I filled his glass of water."

"Oh, Lissy, you shouldn't disturb him."

She frowned. "I'm sorry, Mother, but I promised Alex I would see if his father was alive or dead. I told him you would keep M. Kire alive, but he's a boy and they never believe anything, do they Mother?"

"You should speak kindly of Alex. He's a good boy."

"I know. But he's still a boy."

Her words made me smile. That's a good girl, Lissy."

"May I walk to the bakery and bring M. Kire a cookie? Uncle Anthony always gives me one for free. I'm certain he'll give me two."

"Have Alex go with you. It's too far of a walk for you to go alone."

She scampered away, squealing as she ran down the stairs. With a sigh I closed my journal and braced myself. She was no longer afraid of Alex's father. He'd always been respectful toward her, keeping a safe distance. I expected she was capable of harming him far more than he'd ever hurt her.

Noise downstairs confirmed what Lisette had told me. Erik was awake. He'd need something for the pain soon since he'd been alone for several hours. Suddenly I hoped it would be an elixir I could give him.


	19. A Missing Son

A/N My first official interview takes place on Newslangmag (dot) com. You have to go to the website, go to the blog entries, and read what Gordon Stamper asks and what I answer about Phantom stories, Vikings, and lots more. If you feel so inclined you can even add a blog entry to it and say how you liked the Q&A. Later tonight I'll add the link to my website. Check it out if you have the time.

Julia19

The journal gave me mixed feelings, yet still I wanted to see Erik. I hadn't forgiven him but I was certain I could tolerate his brash comments and nurse him to health. The sooner he was on his feet the sooner he would return to his own home.

I told myself that was what I wanted, to have him home again and out of my life. Then he could pursue what he wanted and I could look for what I needed. Clearly we were not meant for each other, despite my attempts to fit him into the puzzle of my life.

Tears pricked my eyes. We were meant to be together. He'd said himself: We fit together. At least while I lay on my back and cradled his hips between my thighs we belonged together. Desperately I grasped for common ground and all I found was sex. He'd rarely disappointed me on a physical level, at least when it came to pleasure. But after years of intimacy I refused to believe we'd gained nothing more from one another.

I was brushing my hair when Meg pounded on the front door and caused me to drop my hairbrush.

"Julia! Please Julia!" Meg screamed. By the sound of her voice one would have thought she was being murdered. "Please open the door!"

In my haste to run down the stairs I nearly tripped and, as a result, slammed hands first into the door. She was wringing her hands when I greeted her. "Meg? Where's Alex?"

Her face went white. "He isn't here?"

I shifted my weight. "No…your mother said you would bring him over."

"Oh, God," Meg whispered so low I could barely hear her. "Charles said he was quite upset when he last saw him."

Charles was an excellent judge of Alex's feelings. They were close—sometimes more father and son than Erik was to his own child, at least in the past year. Without Monsieur Lowry in the house to listen to Alex and teach him—pay attention to him—I don't know what would have become of that dear little boy. Erik should have been ashamed of himself for putting some wretched soprano before his own child.

"And where was he last seen?"

"Upstairs. Mother told him not to go up there but he wouldn't listen."

"What comes up must come down," I offered.

She pushed the cuticles back on her nails. "And then…._he_ came to the door."

I showed Meg inside, deciding she needed a cup of tea to calm her nerves.

"He never came down?"

"He wasn't in there when Mother went up. He must have gone out the window."

I jerked my head back. "Impossible. He would have landed on the ground and killed himself."

"Then where would he go? Through the wall?"

We stared at each other a moment before I put our nonsense to an end.

"He must be under the bed."

She didn't believe a word of what I said. Looking at her feet, she sighed. "He's too much like his father, disappearing like this."

His father had disappeared more than Meg knew, only his disappearance had taken nearly a year.

"He won't stay gone long. He's a good boy, no doubt thanks to your husband."

Her eyes brightened. I'd always known both Meg and Charles were absolutely in love with Alexandre, especially since they hadn't been blessed with a child of their own. With how much Meg spoke of her husband I was certain they spent many nights trying for their own little pink-faced angel. I also knew without ever hearing a direct word on the matter that Meg had endured her share of promises turned empty. I'd seen it twice before, the glow to her cheeks, the softening of her features.

And then it would disappear. In silence she mourned what she couldn't have. My heart broke for her.

"I don't want anything to happen to him," Meg sniffled. "He's like…a nephew to me."

"He is a nephew to you. He refers to you as his Aunt Meg."

Her morose expression remained in her eyes even though she smiled. "I don't think he knows how much we love him."

"He's like his father, indeed," I said under my breath.

"I'd do anything for Alex," she blurted out. Her bottom lip trembled. I honestly don't know what I would have done if she had started to cry. "Julia, I'd—"

She finished with a gasp and covered her mouth with both hands.

"Meg?"

I followed her gaze and found Alex standing in the doorway. We both ran into the hallway and engulfed him in our arms. He flailed as we thanked God he'd returned in one piece and took turns kissing his face.

"Wait until I hand you over to Mother," Meg said as she grabbed him by the shoulders. She sighed and hugged him again. "Oh, you scared me to death, Alex! Honestly!"

While we cooed and loved him, I ran my hand through his hair—looking for God knows what—while Meg asked him if he'd hurt himself and made him open his mouth so that she could examine his teeth. In our excitement we'd made the poor child into a barnyard animal.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" I asked.

"Father said I could stay with him."

My shoulders fell. "Alexandre…"

"May I stay with him?"

I sighed. He needed a good bath before he was allowed to do anything else. I knew exactly how to distract him: "Are you hungry?"

He nodded. He looked famished.

"Wash your face and hands, then tell Lissy to sit with you while you eat. Supper is in the kitchen, but you make certain you save some for your father."

He was off immediately and I heard what sounded like the continuation of a previous argument between Lisette and Alex.

"He's safe for now." I placed my hands on my hips. "Is the vicomte still there?" I glanced down the hall at the guest room and lowered my voice. "Careful what you say. He listens."

"Mother was still speaking with him when I went upstairs. The last I heard, he had insisted on coming into the house. He said something about walking all the way from the Wisteria just to see us, but I hardly believed that. He's been past the house half a dozen times."

I wondered if he wanted to harm Alex or Erik. If he was anything like his wife, I didn't care for him.

"Let him walk to Cairo. Alex is safe here," I assured Meg. "He can stay as long as he needs, until this madness has finally passed."

"He's unwilling to take 'no' for an answer." Meg glanced down the hall. "He doesn't realize what he's done."

I didn't know what to say to her.

"And now the Comte and Comtess both wish to see Alex. I don't like this, Julia. Mother attempted to dissuade them…she even went so far as to tell them Monsieur Kire had died."

Her formality always surprised me but I nodded. On one level or another, Erik was a stranger to the people around him.

"What did they say to that?"

"They wouldn't listen. They insisted that they see Alex. Oh, Julia, she's not the same girl I once danced with in the opera house. She's…vindictive. I fear for Alex if she gets near him."

"Did she agree?" I asked. "Surely she sent them away."

"She tried."

I held my breath. I hoped she hadn't sent them to my door as there was absolutely no way I could corral the children upstairs and keep Erik in his room where he belonged.

"Meg? Please, tell me what has happened."

"Mother had no other choice."

My lips parted. "She agreed?"

"I fear she'll try to take him away."

My eyes narrowed. "No," I said. Alex had been through hell because of her and I wouldn't allow her to drag him through it again. He'd spent enough hours in my home as my daughter's playmate that I felt he was as much mine as he was hers. No, he was mine. I was the one who made his lunch and watched him lay on the parlor floor and read beside Lissy. Perhaps he wasn't my son, but he was just as dear to me.

"Julia—"

"She won't take Alex. Not from my home."

Not without a fight from me.


	20. A Real Man

Gentle readers: Please check my ff profile! My Viking book is now available through an RWA recognized publisher!

**A Real Man**

Once Meg returned home I checked on Lisette and Alex, who washed their faces and brushed their teeth, about which Lissy always complained.

"Someday you'll thank Monsieur Wadsworth for sending Uncle Archie toothbrushes all the way from America. You'll be proud when you have the prettiest smile in the neighborhood."

She looked to Alex and rolled her eyes, but he was furiously brushing his teeth. They constantly played off each other: One was a saint, the other a sinner. I'd learned it was normally my daughter whose halo was crooked and tarnished.

With the children off to read a bedtime tale, I brushed my hair and took a deep breath. It was Erik's turn to try my patience and send me to the sanitarium. If anyone could drive me mad, it was him.

"I didn't forget about you," I murmured as I walked slowly into the darkened room. "I would have brought supper earlier, but as you heard, Meg came to the door. Raoul de Chagny paid a visit."

He turned the light up enough for me to see the room and the wheelchair I had nearly tripped over. By the expression on his face, I should have graciously thanked him. Instead I offered a weak smile.

"What does he want?" he asked.

I walked to his bedside, poured a glass of water, and showed him a pill between my fingers. Without a word, I put it in the palm of his hand. He looked at me and swallowed hard. I hoped he swallowed his own tongue as I was in no mood to fight him over his medicine—or rub his throat like a puppy.

Without answer I turned away and took the emptied water pitcher from the side table. He was unusually quiet as I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. He seemed relieved when I returned a moment later with fresh water.

"His wife left a note with him to give to Madame Giry." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye as I moved everything from the side table either into the already crowded drawer or into a basket I had pulled from under the bed. "She asked Madame Giry and Madame Lowry to meet her for supper on Friday."

His expression was unreadable. His eyes lowered, his hands clutched the comforter.

"She agreed," I told him.

"She had no other choice," he blurted out.

I turned and looked at him, partly surprised that he had actually listened to my conversation with Meg. It should not have made me bat an eye. Yet still, I found myself barely able to look at him. His words still stung, and despite the desire to care for him, I still wasn't sure if I could do my duty.

"Your son wanted to stay with you," I said without looking at him. "But I had already decided that Lisette will stay with me for the night. Alex is in her room so that you have your privacy."

"Hardly appropriate for a boy his age to take a girl's room."

Ah, so he wasn't complacent after all. Finally, a bit of his combative nature had surfaced. I stood upright and inhaled.

"He is already undressed and in bed."

"He couldn't have fallen asleep yet."

"I am not about to drag him from bed at this hour. Erik, it's half past eleven."

"He's my son."

"And this is my house."

I waited for him to challenge me. Against my better judgment I wanted to tell him exactly how I felt about his emotional affair with Christine. But as I stared at him his expression softened, his eyes cast down. He wasn't thinking of her. He wasn't thinking of us. Alex was on his mind. At last, he'd seen past his delusional fantasies and focused on his son.

"I told him he could stay here," he explained. "He'll think I deceived him."

It was what I wanted to hear from him, words of remorse, promises he couldn't deny his son.

I set the tray on the dresser at the foot of the bed and left the room in search of new sheets, which I had washed earlier in the day. His mask was also dry, and I debated whether or not I should deliver it to his room. His face was not yet healed, nor was the gash to his forehead. His hairpiece, however, was matted with blood and dirt and needed a better cleaning than I was capable of doing. I'd sent Lissy out with the hairpiece and she had returned with it late in the afternoon.

Tears filled my eyes as I walked down the hallway and still heard his voice in my mind. He was terribly concerned with what Alexandre thought of him, which was late in coming but still heartfelt. There was hope for him yet, this foolish man I still loved.

"Torture," Erik grumbled as I approached the guestroom. "Absolute torture. Food at the foot of the bed, out of my damned reach."

His words made me laugh quietly.

"Jul—," he started to yell as I entered the room.

My shoulders dropped as I saw him leaning forward in a vain attempt to reach his supper. It was impossible for him to wait a mere five minutes for me to have the house situated.

"The mask is drying. I didn't realize there was felt underneath when I scrubbed the blood away." I looked away and rocked from my heels to my toes. "I apologize. In the morning I will find glue at the costume shop."

Without looking at him I parted the sheet in my hands and revealed his hairpiece. "I had it cleaned this morning." My voice grew quiet. I could hear him breathing harder as my words humiliated him. "Madame Giry said she will bring the other one over if you wish."

"Oh, God," he muttered. He turned away, holding his hand to his face, then over his head.

My heart sank. The love I felt for him extended further than his hairline. I wondered if anyone had ever bothered to tell him there was much more to him than the scars on his face or what lay beneath his hairpiece.

"Erik—"

His chin touched his chest and he looked more like a child than a grown man. I'd embarrassed him. He wasn't listening to me.

"If Alexandre stays in Lisette's room, you have one more day for the stitches to heal. You'll need the time for the one…" My God, I could barely speak. "…the one at your hairline to go down in swelling before you can wear it without discomfort."

He shuddered and drew his free hand to his face.

"And you think this is not discomfort?" he whispered.

"I don't want to risk infection, which will hurt more than your faltering sense of worth. Already the stitches appear red."

"You despise me this much that you'll stop at nothing to torture me?"

"This isn't punishment. How dare you insinuate that I would be so juvenile and petty." I snorted at him. "Really, Erik, do you think I would do such a thing?" I turned my head to the side. "You're irritating, like a fly before the rain, but I won't seek revenge on you, if that's your concern."

"Then give it to me. If you do not intend to punish me, honor my request," he growled. His voice shook when he spoke, hands splayed to cover as much of his flesh as possible.

"Erik—"

"Give it here." His hands balled into fists.

"He's already in bed. It would be silly to wear it now. Besides, you haven't even washed."

He glared at me before his gaze fell. "Alex is not my concern."

"What is your concern? You'll be alone and asleep once you eat."

"Right now I'm neither. For God's sake, I've asked you for nothing else."

If I looked at him I would start to cry. He'd never been a weak individual. Despite his obvious insecurities he carried himself well, walked straight and tall. But now he had withered, shrinking before my very eyes. He was confident as long as he was Erik Kire, mysterious composer. But once he was no longer a spirit in the night, once he was only a man, he could no longer tolerate himself—and he expected the same reaction from others.

"Haven't you seen enough for a lifetime?" he questioned, his anger flaring. "What more do you want?"

"I've seen more of you than just this," I whispered, unable to look him in the eye.

"That's hardly the same."

"Because it's dark when you come into my bedroom?"

"Because it's different and you know it."

I regarded the wig for a moment and heard him groan as I straightened the back with my fingers. His hair—his real hair—was thin, but with a different cut it might be possible to hide the bald patch on the side of his head. I looked at the hairpiece and frowned. This wasn't Erik. This was a lie, part of his fantasy. This was as real as Christine.

"Did you think I was so ignorant that I didn't know?" I asked under my breath. "Did you think I preferred this," I lowered the wig, "to what was there?"

"There is nothing beneath. There has never been anything."

I walked toward him and dropped the hairpiece on the dresser.

"May I have it back? Please."

I ignored his request and considered his words. While he stared at me I stirred honey into his tea. The look in his eyes reminded me of myself six years prior, when Louis berated me at every opportunity.

It was never his hand balled into a fist which lingered and scared me. It was his words, always spoken through his teeth, which broke my spirit. I'd suffered for years, but I had recovered at last—in the arms of a man who touched me with great tenderness, who held my hand when we made love. It was in those moments that we were whole, healing one another.

But perhaps it wasn't enough.

When I looked at Erik I saw his pain had settled much deeper—wounds created from a lifetime of harsh words and actions, of keeping to himself. Like scar tissue in his heart, I thought. Yet he still had a good heart.

The spoon in my hand clanked to the floor. He did have a good heart. If nothing else, he'd always had a good heart. Misplaced, perhaps, but loyal.

I stood straighter, gathering my strength. "No, there is something beneath, Erik." I looked at him in the mirror, saw the disbelief in his eyes. "I've seen it. Your son has seen it. Perhaps you have seen it as well."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Erik, there has to be something left. Christine couldn't have taken it all from you in one night."

I took the tray in my hands and brought it to his bedside. At last, I met his eye and offered him a smile. "There is more than deceit inside of you. For Alex's sake, there has to be something left, something worth his affection for you."


	21. Risked Affection

Julia21

What truly broke my heart was Erik's demeanor when I asked him to change from his sullied clothes so that I could properly examine his wounds. He seemed almost catatonic as I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his arms through. With his eyes fixed on a distant point, he sat with his lips parted.

I swiftly gathered my supplies and dampened a clean cloth. I scrubbed soap into my washcloth and cleansed him from the neck down. He didn't argue, he didn't protest, he didn't ask me to stop at any point. Like a statue he sat, seemingly oblivious to my hand against his chest and the cloth at his collarbone.

As I washed away blood and dirt, I wondered how men could treat another man with such cruelty. It was one of the questions I had always wanted to ask Louis. If you love me, truly love me, then how can you raise your hand at me or your daughter? I was certain Erik could find a thousand reasons for someone to cause him harm. I could find two thousand for someone to respect him.

"Here." I lifted his arm from his side where I saw a long cut across his ribs. It wasn't deep, but all he needed was a superficial injury to become infected and poison him.

He continued to stare at the wall. His lack of reaction frightened me. I leaned forward to look him in the eye and he drew back.

"They should be ashamed of themselves," I said under my breath.

"Why?"

"Because…because this was wrong."

He met my eye briefly. The infinite sadness I saw in his gaze made my heart plummet. He'd been beaten before, which I had always known. But now, when I looked at him, I realized he'd been beaten much worse in the past—and he'd believed he was deserving of such treatment.

I didn't know if I should feel angry or sympathetic. My attraction to him had always been as a lover and caretaker. He'd never struck me as a man who desired to pull at my heartstrings. In fact, he didn't want my pity. He never wanted anything from me—at least anything beyond physical affection.

"I'll bring you more medicine in the morning. Laudanum if I can find it."

He shook his head, his eyes fixed on mine as I wiped his knuckles.

"For now, one of the pills should see you through the night. I'll leave you something should your stomach betray you."

He still didn't protest. As much as I should have appreciated his compliance, he worried me. I sat closer and turned up the lamp so I could see if he needed stitches for his injuries.

"Must I ask for your permission to eat or do you intend on governing that as well?" he grumbled.

Ah, at last, there was my Erik -- surly and uncooperative. I smiled but didn't reply as I touched his left eyelid. His face was quite swollen—which I expected it would be for several days. He drew away from my touch and exhaled hard.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," I whispered, feeling the need to assure him that I would never intentionally cause him harm.

Our eyes met once more and I offered a gentle, reassuring smile. Remember me, I wanted to tell him, but I wasn't sure he could remember his life before he'd been brought viciously to his knees. I could forgive him for his cruel words, but I didn't know if he would ever forgive me for still loving him.

Holding his gaze, I reached up to his forehead and hairline. He'd scraped his head badly—which compounded the split in his forehead that was held together by stitches.

"Please don't do this." He whispered, his voice tight and almost childlike. "Bring me a mirror and I will do it myself."

"Close your eyes," I replied.

He stared at me, a shiver passing through him as he silently decided whether he wished to protest or allow me to dominate him. The expression on his face made it perfectly clear to me that the idea of a woman caring for a man was too foreign for him.

He shut his eyes and shivered again as the cool rag touched his forehead and scalp. I brushed my fingers through his thin hair, felt him tense as I gently caressed his temple.

"Your eyes are so bruised," I whispered. "You are fortunate you did not go blind."

"The only sense I need is my hearing," he answered.

"What about touch?" I ran my finger against his cheek and he turned his face toward me, allowing me to touch him…on the unmasked side. It was at least a start, I hoped.

His lips trembled and I reached for his hand but stopped when I glanced at his hips and saw his arousal straining against his trousers. I stared at him in disbelief. How on earth could he feel desire in his current state?

"I'll fix another compress for you but you must keep it on all night long, is that understood?" When I glanced up I discovered him staring at me.

"If I may eat, I'll agree to anything." His voice sounded deeper, resonating with his current and obvious feelings.

"How useful are your fingers?"

He had the audacity to smirk as he flexed his hand. Ignoring his childish behavior, I gave him a spoon and stood to fetch his soup. When I returned with his dinner tray I nearly sat it in his lap, but there was still an obvious—and seemingly growing—problem.

"You're in enough pain as it is," I said, nodding at his legs. "I'll save you from burning yourself." He watched me as my face reddened. Aggravated, I rolled my eyes, almost preferring his silent state to this nonsense. "There is nothing endearing about your vulgarity—and don't even start with me. I see everything you're thinking in your eyes."

He wished to poke my nerves with a sharp stick.

"I suppose your innocent thoughts revolve around sewing and herb gardens?"

"Women don't think as lewdly as men."

"As lewdly?" he challenged. "Meaning that they do indeed have improper thoughts."

I had many improper thoughts running through my head as I could barely keep my gaze from wandering.

"Not as improperly as you. Now sit quietly or I'll put your supper outside for the tramps."

It was a false threat. As much as I should have remained his nurse, I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, wrap my arms around him, and fall asleep. I hoped that come morning our lives would return to normal—or normal for us. If I could have him in my bed for several hours I would be content. He didn't need to stay the night, to hold me close and whisper that he loved me. I didn't need to run my hands through his hair or kiss his lips. His body was my treasure, the feelings he gave me what I needed to survive.

My God, I felt like crying when I looked at him and realized how weak I was, how trembling and stupid I had become over the years. I'd settled for the ghost when I should have insisted on the man.

"Not as improperly! Pah! Then clearly I am delirious."

"Then eat something. The medicine will upset your stomach."

I felt as though I were the delirious one walking around my own house, fretting over this man. Not now, I told myself, not when I was so close to finally seeing him for who he was and not putting him upon a pedestal. I couldn't allow myself to look past everything that had happened. I wanted him to change and I wanted to change with him.

With one weak smile, I turned away from him and braced myself to spend another night alone in bed. It was like placing a bottle of wine before a drunk. Could I bear leaving him alone?

Again I sat and palpated his ribs, needing distraction. I was unable to leave his side. His sheer presence was strong, magnetic.

"I would never strike you," he blurted out. I stared at him briefly, uncertain of what he meant. Perhaps he envisioned Christine at his bedside. Perhaps I no longer existed. "I shouldn't have raised my hand at you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Now sit still. I think you've broken a rib."

"Julia—"

I pressed harder than I had originally intended, my aggravation with myself escalating. Why did I insist upon _this_ man—this intolerable, greedy, pig-headed man? There were hundreds, thousands of men in Paris alone. Surely I could have found another.

But I didn't want to find anyone else. I enjoyed the way he argued with me, the way he stomped about and waved his hands in the air. Irritating and irritable, he fascinated me each time I saw him. Quiet though never really silent, afraid yet truly fearless of heart…he was an enigma—a string I wanted to unravel and tie around my heart.

I tried to keep him quiet, to convince him that I was tired and both children were in my home, and I merely wanted a moment of peace. But he wouldn't listen.

"In your dining room, when I came to look for Alexandre, I forced you against the wall and you thought I would strike you."

He spoke without taking a breath. It was as though the words had remained lodged in his throat for hours and begged for release.

Ashamed, I drew away from him and refused to meet his eye.

"I hit you first."

He exhaled hard, a muffled groan leaving his lips. "You are a woman," he said under his breath. "I would never hit you, or Madeline, or Meg, or even Christine."

A question burned within me, one that needed to be released just as his words desperately sought a voice.

"How many times did you watch?"


	22. Recollection

Julia22

"Recollection"

His parted lips trembled, and for once I was assured he would not challenge my words. He looked absolutely appalled by my question. Despite his bruises, I knew he had blanched in horror.

At last he looked away from me.

"How did you know?" he questioned.

I couldn't look at him either. Hands folded, I could still hear the rustle of bushes and the creak of the gate opening. My tongue worked on its own as I explained to him what I remembered of that night.

_It was dark. I lay alone in bed with my legs drawn up nearly to my chest and my arms folded. Eyes closed, I hugged myself tightly and prayed that I had miscarried. As much as I longed for a child, I didn't want to bear another daughter for Louis. In truth I didn't want to bear a child for him at all. Lisette suffered at his hands. How could I allow my son or daughter to face him?_

_In silence I bit my lip and cried. It was my fault that she suffered. For two weeks Anthony had practically gone down on his knees and begged me to stay with his mother. He'd taken me into the back of his bakery where the black-haired girl—Elizabeth, I thought—attempted to busy herself. _

_As much as I wanted to leave, I couldn't. Louis would cause a scene in public, which I didn't want. If he wanted to scream, then let it be in the privacy of our home. All of France didn't need to know our marital shortcomings, MY shortcomings as a wife and mother. _

_My tears fell faster. Why couldn't I leave? I was too frightened to pack my bags and even more frightened to stay. We'd starve on the streets, I told myself. Or someone would attempt to steal Lisette from me. I couldn't live without her, the only ray of love and hope in my life. It killed me to think that my love for her offered no protection, that I was so worthless to her when she meant everything to me. _

_The front door opened and slammed shut. My muscles contracted. Our nights ran one into the other, never a detail missed. He'd stagger into the house, stumble up the stairs, and grunt and curse until I could no longer pretend to sleep. Sometimes he'd manage to arouse himself, other times he was far too drunk to do more than slide his hand beneath my nightgown and rub his flaccid shaft against my thigh. _

_The previous night he'd come home in need of satisfaction. My insides knotted. I was certain that the man who lived behind our house had seen my dress lifted and my husband take me from behind. I'd closed my eyes and held onto the windowsill, unvoiced screams ripping through my insides. _

_"Julia," Louis barked._

_I reluctantly opened my eyes and waited for him to stomp upstairs. While my heart thumped wildly, I heard his name called. He wasn't alone. My God, he'd brought home one of his friends._

_My legs closed tighter, arms hugging myself as though I could anchor my body to the bed. Seconds ticked by and I lay wide awake, afraid to answer him. _

_"Who's there?" he slurred._

_My feet immediately found the floor and I tiptoed into Lisette's room. She was already awake, her eyes wide in the dark. In silence I kissed her forehead and wrapped my arms around her. _

_"Come out here," a voice answered._

_"Who'n the hell are you?"_

_Lisette clung to me, her tears wetting my nightgown. I kissed her face and her hair, held her so tight I was surprised I didn't suffocate her._

_"It is the moon," the voice answered._

_Louis gave a chuckle. "You my bitch of a wife's lover?"_

_A long pause. I wondered if I had imagined a voice in the night._

_"Not yet," he said at last. _

_I thought I would vomit. For once I wanted Louis in the room with us. _

_"Take her. She's loose and worthless."_

_The floor creaked and I knew Louis was in the kitchen. But I couldn't tell where the voice came from. It sounded as though it came from the kitchen, but I also thought I heard breathing outside the bedroom window. _

_"Monsieur Seuratti, are you afraid?"_

_"Afraid of what?"_

_"Afraid of me."_

_He laughed again, though now he sounded nervous. "Why in the hell would I be afraid of a man in shadows?"_

_"Why, indeed. Step closer. From this distance you look like a pig."_

_The floor creaked again._

_"Ah, even this close you still resemble a pig. I pity the swine."_

_Louis cursed loudly and I covered Lisette's ears. The back door opened with a loud crack and I heard Louis give a yelp of surprise. My instinct was to protect Lisette. Against all reason, I grabbed her and fled down the stairs, paying little heed to the wide open kitchen door or the movement of shadows in our back garden. _

_Within moments we were hunkered down in the cellar where I listened through the barred windows and rocked Lissy back and forth. She fell asleep. God knows how, but she managed to find comfort in my grasp._

_"You stupid, worthless bastard," the voice growled. "For years you have ruined my nights, ruined my inspiration."_

_Silently I prayed for an angel to carry me and my daughter away from this hell. Tears fell down my cheeks as I realized I had no escape. This man, this monster, would kill my husband and then come for Lisette and me. _

_Louis made no reply—at least not coherently. I heard him blubbering, begging for mercy. His words were followed by an unrecognizable sound. I never knew what it was that made him groan in agony, but it kept him silent. _

_"Suffocation is the worst death, Monsieur," the voice said. _

_Another groan._

_"I could easily slit your throat and you would swiftly bleed to death. Would you appreciate that, Monsieur?"_

_His grunt sounded desperate._

_"Too messy. You'd leave a trail across the garden. We wouldn't want a trail, would we? Hmm? I'm listening, Monsieur. Surely you wish to speak?"_

_There was no reply. Then the unrecognizable sound again and a muffled scream. _

_"Beating you to death would take far too long. I am a very impatient man, Monsieur. Oh, it's my very worst trait. And do you know I have spent the majority of my life waiting…always…always…waiting. Nothing is worth waiting for. Yes, I am impatient and cynical."_

_Again no reply. Rather than cower I sat up and searched the darkness for a face, for a shape. There was nothing but a voice. I dug my fingernails into my palm and realized this wasn't a dream._

_"I believe I was wrong. My very worst trait isn't impatience. It's intolerance. Or perhaps it is my best trait."_

_"Oh, my God," I whispered. "What evil is this?" _

_Louis cried softly. I heard footsteps shuffle through the grass, then the sound of a tree branch moaning. _

_"My art suffers because of you. I cannot tolerate another night of my music being bruised and mistreated. If there is one thing in this world I love, it is music, and you have managed to destroy my craft, my true love."_

_"The violinist!" I whispered loudly. _

_The voice paused, its breathing turned heavy. For a moment I thought I'd spoken too loudly and been caught. _

_"It takes longer than one would think for a man to suffocate. Did you realize that when a man is hanged, his neck normally breaks? If it doesn't, he writhes at the end of his rope until he suffocates. It's terrible, Monsieur, terrible, inhumane suffering. My art has suffered quite inhumanely for years. I'd like to reimburse you with equal amounts of suffering, however I don't have years. I have only this evening. Shall we begin?"_

_I didn't hear if Louis protested. In my mind I saw the silhouette in the window, the thin figure who paced his bedroom floor and played at all hours of the night. He'd seen me the previous night. I hadn't seen him, as his room was dark, but I'd felt him watching as Louis pinned me to the window, his every thrust pushing me against the pane. I'd done everything possible to keep from making a sound until he was finished. Once he left I'd forgotten my silence and cried well into the night._

_"This is for each time you made her cry, for every bruise you put on her body, for every moment in which your daughter cowered in fear." He paused. It sounded as though there was a struggle. "And, yes, Monsieur Seuratti, you God damned pig, this is for my music. It shall never suffer again."_

Erik was still breathing heavily. His eyes were filled with emotion, though there was no indication of regret.

"I asked Madame Giry about you and she wouldn't answer my questions. She tried to convince me that there was no one else in the house but I told her I had seen you. I attempted for weeks…"

He looked as though he couldn't decide if he should be mesmerized or horrified by my revelation. He had no idea how badly I had wanted to put a face to the voice. I knew he wouldn't have allowed me to see him—the real him. The first night I actually saw him on the street he'd been nothing like I had imagined. Humble—almost fearful of my presence—he'd attempted to walk past without a conversation. Yet, in my heart I knew he'd killed Louis not for his music, but for me. I needed to see him, to know this man. I was compelled beyond all reason to see him and know his name.

"What did you try?" he asked.

The clock chimed midnight and I no longer felt like speaking. The pain of recollection had given me a headache. I tossed the bandages into the drawer, stirred his soup, and looked over his room. He'd survive the night.

"Do you need anything?"

He merely shook his head, which worried me. His normally focused mind was still muddled and I had reservations about leaving him alone. But, I had just as many reservations about spending the night with him.

"Then I shall see you in the morning." I offered a weak smile.

He stared at me a moment, his gaze searching my face. "You will return in the morning?" he questioned.

"Of course," I answered.

"I'm…I'm not…"

"What is it?" I asked sharply.

"Evil," he whispered. He looked away from me, turning so that I couldn't see his unmasked face.

"No," I replied. "Louis was evil. Good night, Erik."

I left him for the night and cried myself to sleep.


	23. Pending Deluge

Julia23

When I returned to Erik's side the following morning he had a look of suspicion on his face. Moments before I entered I'd heard him slam the bedside table drawer shut and knew he was up to no good.

"You look terrible," I said to him as I carried in his breakfast.

He instantly looked away. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Didn't you sleep?"

He made no reply. I'd been in his room for half a minute and already he was grating on my nerves.

"You realize you won't heal without proper sleep?" I questioned. Lord knows I wanted him healed and able to care for himself soon, otherwise he would threaten to drive me mad. I stirred his soup and frowned. "You didn't like it?"

"Never tried it."

I was beginning to think he preferred lying around in bed all day to his freedom. With a sigh, I considered his plight: Care for himself or have me care for him. As downtrodden as he appeared, I doubted he truly suffered when he had me to fluff his pillows and drape blankets over his feet.

"Well," I said under my breath. I placed my hand against his forehead and, just as I suspected, there was no fever. To be certain he wasn't about to die, I touched his cheeks. He drew away from me but made no protest and I met his gaze with indifference. I wanted to tell him that his appearance didn't govern my feelings for him. He was simply aggravating, scarred or unscarred.

"There's no fever," I concluded.

"I never said I had a fever."

"No, but you did run a temperature yesterday, and it's best to be certain that it hasn't returned."

He looked both terrified and guilty, but I ignored him and gazed around the room. I noticed a bandage sticking out like a tongue from the bedside drawer and reached to close it but his hand shot out slammed the drawer shut.

For a moment we stared at one another. He looked me dead in the eye and swallowed hard, nailing his own coffin shut. I shook my head, deciding it was far too early for me to fall victim to his eccentric ways.

"You were starving to death last night," I said. I removed his cold supper and placed breakfast in its place. "What is it? Why didn't you eat?"

He glanced at his lap and up at me again. "Given the circumstances, I would expect you already know."

My lips pursed and I fought from snickering. He thought he was the only one who suffered. I had half the mind to remind him it was his foolishness that had ended our enjoyment.

"Didn't I tell you to eat? Your stomach is probably quite upset."

"There is nothing wrong with my stomach."

I refused to look at him for fear of falling victim to his unnatural charm. In a heartbeat he would meet my eye, stare at me with his sad eyes, and I would want to gather him in my arms and comfort him. It took all of my strength to remember he needed punishment in whatever form I could find it. Withholding intimacy was as good a ploy as any to see him concentrate on recovery.

But he continued to stare at me and I felt compelled to speak. He was truly aggravating me and I would not tolerate it a moment more.

"You are simply impossible." I risked a glance. "Nothing will change that, will it?"

"No," he answered flatly.

"You can't even have sense beaten into you, can you?"

He hesitated a moment and I regretted my words. The sadness etched into his face told me he'd been beaten many times before…possibly much worse than this.

"Apparently not," he answered softly.

With a sigh I left his room and closed the door with my foot. It swung harder than I anticipated and slammed shut. I jumped and considered apologizing, but I heard both Lisette and Alex running about like wild animals and decided to reprimand the two of them instead.

Between cleaning the kitchen, chasing down Lisette and asking her—several times—to change into clean clothes, I almost forgot that Erik was still in the guest room. It had rained for most of the night on into the morning, but I needed to leave the house.

"Do not make a sound while I'm gone," I said to Lissy. "You and Alex both sit quietly and read."

"May I teach Alex to sew?"

Alex looked utterly appalled by her suggestion.

"If he allows it," I answered. Just like his father, he needed his feathers fluffed. "Though don't be surprised if he's better than you. Men make wonderful tailors."

Lissy grabbed him by the arm. "I'll show you a thing or two," she insisted.

With the children preoccupied, I could only hope that Erik would sleep, read, or distract himself in a manner that wouldn't get him into trouble and give me the peace I needed.

-o-

It was only a soft drizzle when I left my house, but halfway to the bakery it began to pour. I entered like a soaked rat, my hair drooping in my face and my gloves cold and clammy against my skin.

"Julia?"

Anthony, my cousin, stood behind the counter with a broom in hand. "My, God. What has happened?"

"It wasn't raining when I left home," I said cheerfully.

He furrowed his brow in concern. "You're liable to catch a fever in this weather."

"Oh, nonsense," I said lightly. "I merely needed a moment out of the house."

My words did nothing to stifle his fears. He knew as well as I did that I had once used a trip to the bakery as an excuse to be away from Louis. However, with Louis I was never truly away from him. He'd often followed me, staying across the street or a hundred paces back. He thought I didn't know, but I did. I knew more than he ever imagined.

"Who is in your house?" he asked flatly.

I rolled my eyes. "Anthony, please—"

"A man?" He set the broom against the wall and walked around to meet me. "Someone your brother sent?"

"Excuse me?"

He folded his arms and looked me over. A thousand times before he'd given me this same, hard-nosed expression, this same scrutinizing gaze that said he knew what was going on—but would never voice it aloud.

"What are you running away from?"

His words surprised me. Perhaps he would forget himself and his usual pleasantries and at last confront me the way I had always feared.

"I'm not running," I whispered.

"Not yet?"

I glared at him. "I have no reason to run."

"Then you accept it?"

"Do you?" I accused, feeling the walls cave in on me.

"It wasn't me that he beat, Julia." He stared straight through me, allowing no escape from the past. "I tried to help you. Honestly, I did everything I could—short of walking into your home and taking you away."

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"It was ridiculous," he corrected, only I knew he meant to say 'you were ridiculous' instead. "Laughable, almost," he added cruelly.

"It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Anthony. Now, I need two loaves of bread and I'll take six apple turnovers," I said stoically.

He never took his eyes off of me as he placed my order into a bag and wrapped it for me. "No charge, of course," he said.

"Thank you."

"I would never want you to owe me anything," he said, getting in the last word. "When I have done nothing for you."

We stared at one another briefly. He regretted something—either the past or the present. I tucked my parcel under my arm and trudged into the rain, the only person without an umbrella who walked as though it were a clear, sunny day.

He would worry about me for quite some time, I knew. I only hoped he would worry privately.

When I returned home, Madame Giry was walking up to my front door. She looked horrified to see me soaked to the bone, but I merely smiled as though there was nothing wrong.

"I brought over a few of his belongings," she said.

"Thank you," I replied.

Her lips pursed. "How is he?"

"Surly," I answered. Water dripped into my eyes and I chuckled. "I'm not certain if that's good or bad."

"Is he walking yet?"

I shook my head. "He probably could if he cared to try."

"Excuse me?" she asked, quite defensively.

"He hasn't moved from his bed yet." _But he's trying like hell to have me join him._

She merely nodded.

"Would you care to see him?"

It surprised me when she shook her head. "He needs his rest," she replied gruffly.

I hugged the parcels closer to my chest. They had a curious relationship. While Madame Giry often spoke fondly of him, Erik barely said her name. When he did care to mention her it was because she'd moved a sheet of paper from his desk or spend his money in a way he found inappropriate—such as purchasing a hat or new gloves.

It took me quite some time to realize that the more he complained of someone the fonder he was of them. He could carry on for hours about how Alex was always scuffing the floors.

"Shall I relay a message to him?" I questioned.

She glanced back at the street and then at me again. "No, no. I should not have stayed so long. Good day, Madame Seuratti."

I returned inside, left my bread in the kitchen, and approached Erik's room. With a deep breath I entered. He glanced up immediately, and the book in his hands fell onto his lap.

"Wh-what in the hell happened?" he asked.

"It's still raining," I replied, having little idea that the greatest flood of my life was the man sitting before me.


	24. Erik's Request

Julia24

"I have your belongings," I said as I presented the neatly wrapped brown paper bag Madame Giry had given me. I turned to the side and pulled the twine bow apart. "Madame Giry said she would stop by later."

He was breathing harder than he should have been, especially since he'd spent all day incapacitated while I ran around on his behalf. Being an intelligent woman—and one who had knowledge of Erik's mind—I knew precisely what he was thinking.

It was my fault for entering his room with my clothes sopping wet while he sat in only his trousers.

"She has a letter for you."

He looked startled when I spoke, and when he questioned me he stared at my breasts. I didn't need his eyes on me as a reminder that the rain was cold and my clothes even colder.

"From who?" His voice was strained. My, God, he made it entirely too hard to think clearly, but I would not look into his eyes and give in to lust. He was injured and I still was not entirely happy with him.

I looked away. It was best not to encourage him…or myself. "I haven't any idea."

But like a fool, I glanced up at him and sighed. He was undeterred, even when I placed my hands on my hips and shook my head. "Honestly, Erik," I scolded, hoping I would listen to my own words. "Have you no self control?"

He frowned at me but continued to stare at my breasts like a dog expecting a steak for supper. I was far too flattered to be angry with him, even though I continued to tell myself I didn't want or need his physical affection.

Of course, that was an outright lie. I longed to feel his arms around me, to smell his male scent and the heat of his body. Eight days had passed since I'd last invited him into my bed. Eight long, agonizing days without him to satisfy me.

I was at the edge of hysteria. He hadn't said a word or done anything wrong, and I shifted my weight.

"Erik," I warned.

"Why didn't you say you were going to visit Madeline? There are things I wanted you to retrieve."

His words startled me and I crossed my arms. My face burned with shame for my lack of control…or was it from our mutual need? "Retrieve? Such as what?"

"Alex's dog."

Damn him. How swiftly I was pushed aside. Still, he made me smile because I knew how much he loved that little thing. In the summer I'd heard him speaking to her about how much he hated Luc Testan. He even had her barking whenever he said "that vile name", as he told her.

He never knew how his voice carried through an open window and I could never tell him how much more I'd fallen in love with him over such absurd circumstances—and how I felt a twinge of jealousy over Bessie. He spoiled her, really. And I knew she slept in his bed.

"Absolutely not, Erik. I'll not have a dog in my house. They're filthy creatures." Besides, he was about to be very fond of that dog and I didn't need more competition for his affection, even if I had no intention of sleeping with Erik. Or, rather, even if I intended to sleep with him but wanted to convince myself otherwise. I was losing.

"The dog makes less of a mess than Alex."

I rolled my eyes and began folding the clothes into a neat pile. "Well, it seems your dog and your son now have something in common." I walked the clothes over to the dresser and moved several items out of the drawer to fit his belongings inside. "Did you know your son threw a rock and hit the vicomte?"

"I knew he threw a rock."

Madame Giry had sounded so proud of Alex. I tried to contain my smile because I could just see little Alex running away, grinning to himself with his mop of hair in his eyes.

"Your dog bit his hand."

"Good. Now if Meg and Madeline beat the holy hell out of him, I'd say we were even."

His lust had turned to bitterness, which frightened me. His torso was scraped and bruised, his face still swollen. I wondered how he had continued to function after such a beating. It was too painful to imagine this had happened to him before, when he was younger.

"This is serious. He threatened to have the gendarmes come and take the dog away. Madame Giry said she hid the dog in your bedroom all night."

Panic filled his gaze, his protective nature shining through. He could be a very intimidating man, but at the same time he was fiercely loyal and loving, though always guarded. There was heart to him that he never showed. From the day I'd first seen him I knew he'd been heartbroken before. And now I wasn't so sure it was Christine's fault. He'd lost someone. I wondered about this often.

Erik's lips twitched in anger. "I'll kill him if anything happens to that damned dog."

"You should dress. It isn't healthy to lie around like this. You will catch a fever if you sit around half-naked," I commented, keeping my tone playful. I opened the drawer I had just closed and removed a shirt I had just folded. He truly had my mind where it shouldn't have been. The sooner he was dressed the sooner I hoped to function like a respectable widow who was hiding her lover in her home. "I have a thousand things to do today and not a moment to spare to you and your dawdling. Come on, lift your arms."

I leaned over him and threaded his arm through the new shirt. It surprised me when he didn't protest or insist he do it himself, until I realized exactly where his face lined up on my body. His eyes bulged and I was surprised he didn't chuckle to himself. Reaching over him, I saw the evidence of his arousal tenting his trousers.

"I have half the mind to sock you in the eye, Erik," I murmured as I sat on the bed and buttoned his shirt. It was impossible not to notice his erection, but I did my best to avoid touching him and therefore further exciting him.

"Perhaps you should not be so tempting," he muttered.

His flattery was more than I was prepared to tolerate. Yes, I was aware of his needs, but he was being unusually sincere. I was not yet ready to accept him in this way, even though it was what I had always wanted.

"There. Good. I'll be back in an hour or so, the children will be upstairs…" I began to rise but he caught me by the wrist and I stopped. His expression was twisted, desperate. For a moment I thought he would begin to weep. The next moment I felt as though I would be the one to break down. He needed something and I feared it wasn't me—or it was more of myself than I was able to offer. "What is it?"

His thumb rubbed the underside of my wrist. "If you closed your eyes, if you didn't have to see it, would you allow me to kiss you? Just once?" he blurted out, his voice a trembling whisper. He broke my heart and filled me with love all in one breath. "Just once."


	25. What He Needs

Julia25

"Just once," he whispered. His eyes closed and he inhaled sharply. "And then never again."

After all these years together he still had no idea how deep my affection for him ran. My love for him was lifeblood, a bond that existed far deeper than sexually.

He left me confused and unable to answer. If I agreed, he would have what he wanted, which I wasn't sure complemented what I wanted from him. One kiss may very well have been the last. I'd grown accustomed to him acquiring what he needed and then withdrawing, heedless to the needs of the people around him. One kiss would feed him, sustain him for another day and kill me in the process.

I couldn't do it. Not yet.

"Oh, Erik," I whispered.

He winced and drew his shoulders up as though I'd physically hurt him. Lips quivering, he turned away from me and I worried I'd lost him in a different way by taking everything away from him.

I considered reaching out to him, allowing what he selfishly demanded. Yet, I tired of his narcissistic ways. Erik always came first. Despite not knowing his life history, I had the impression that he was in love with himself because no one else had ever cared for him. It was his only defense, and as I sat beside him, I knew I would take that away from him. It was the only way.

"You've exhausted yourself," I said quietly.

He didn't answer me and I didn't expect him to say a word.

"There's a doctor who lives a few streets away," I said, keeping my voice low. All I wanted was to ease his pain, even if I was the sole contributor. "His name is Dr. Cordell and he has seen Charles a few times, I believe. We worked together during the war when I volunteered, and I believe that if I ask him, he will allow me a small amount of morphine for your pain. You'll sleep, you'll get your rest at last, and then in the morning, you won't be in such terrible pain."

"That will not stop my pain!" he shouted. He glared at me, his chest heaving, nostrils flared. I feared he'd work himself into such a frenzy that his nose would start to bleed again or his stitches would burst. "I don't need for you to sedate me! I didn't ask for you to drug me! Did you even hear my question? I asked you to kiss me. Just tell me yes or no and nothing more."

I would not yell at him the way he had yelled at me. Feigning composure, I folded my hands and looked him in the eye. "Erik, please."

_I do love you, I do care for you, I do want to kiss you—after all these years of running my hands down the length of your back, of tracing circles on your chest and touching you intimately. _

We'd been together, covered only in each other's embrace. My thighs had cradled him, my body had accepted his, but he had never touched his lips to mine. I needed to kiss him, to know the flavor of his lips as well as I knew the taste of his shoulders.

He shuddered at my words and nodded slowly as though he'd lost all hope. His right hand rose swiftly to his face and he slapped himself. The action produced little emotion—barely a grimace or sound of pain despite his hand pressing into his stitches and the deep, swollen bruises. He hurt too badly to realize he put himself in further pain…or perhaps he no longer cared if he was in pain.

I leaned forward and wanted to wrap my arms around him but I feared the look in his eyes.

"Erik," I whispered.

"Don't look at me," he demanded through his teeth.

"That has nothing to do with my answer."

A slew of curses left his mouth and he pounded his fists on the mattress. "Tell me you can't stand to look at me!" he yelled. "Tell me the thought of pressing your lips to mine is the worst thought ever to invade your mind! Tell me!"

"No, Erik."

"You're a coward," he said under his breath. "A damned coward, Julia."

My blood boiled though I refused to give in to his anger and snap at him. He would not force me to push him away, no matter what he said. If he wished to be stubborn I'd give him hell for it.

"You think after all these years I'd deny you because you don't have your mask on?" He didn't answer. "Don't call me petty, Erik. It has nothing to do with your mask still drying."

He'd fully expected me to say "your face" but I wouldn't even give him that. It irritated him to no end. I doubt he ever suspected his _placee_, the one who made him desserts and listened to him complain about modern day composers, had a tenacious side.

"Then what does?" he asked bitterly. He traced along his flesh as though suddenly I'd see his injuries in a different light and find myself repulsed by his face. "This does not play a part in your decision, Madame? Don't lie to me! Tell me why you refuse!"

"I didn't refuse," I said softly.

He shook, whether with rage or melancholy, I didn't know. His gaze darted around, his lips still quivering. A tear slipped down his cheek, which he ignored. I could barely look at him, to see what I had done to him, and what he did to himself.

"Erik, look at me."

He hesitated but finally looked me in the eye. His gaze was vacant, his hopes diminished to meager needs. It reminded me of my own reflection in the mirror when Louis returned home early and wanted to fight.

"I will not kiss you," I told him once more.

He wept silently, the reaction from my painful words starting in his shoulders and trembling down his body. I wanted to cry as well but I tired of crying over him. He was a grown man perfectly capable of discerning right from wrong. He had a softer, gentler side when it came to Bessie and Alex, and even me. But what he'd shown as of late was dark and treacherous. He'd brought all of this upon himself and now he had to pay the price. I needed to be firm but not vindictive.

"I will not kiss you. Not until you give me a reason to kiss you," I said.

"A reason?" he stammered.

He finally looked ready to listen. Sitting back, I inhaled and considered my words, wondering if I could hold his attention long enough to finish speaking before he accused me of invading Paris.

"This last year, the last three days in particular, you have been impossible. You have gone out on your own accord, stirred up trouble, and suffered the consequences of your thoughtless behavior."

His eyes widened and he studied me carefully.

"You are far too accustomed to getting your way. Madame Giry, Madame Lowry, even I have been guilty of keeping you content—or as content as you will allow. You do as you wish without earning a damned thing, taking what you want without giving back. Those days, it seems, have caught up with you at last. If you wish to be shown affection, you must earn the privilege."

"How?" he asked before I had finished my sentence.

"You are not so helpless as that, Erik. You already know the answer. Once you decide to admit it to yourself, perhaps then you will have what you want."

Once again he seethed. "You do this out of pity."

I rose from his bedside and looked him over. Head tilted to the side, I decided to be catty for once, to show him I would no longer lie down and watch him stamp about like a spoiled child. If we were to be equals, I would assert myself—for his sake.

"For you, I do nothing out of pity. I am not Christine."

I left him slack-jawed and completely stupefied. Once I closed his bedroom door I sighed and grinned to myself, hoping that little wretch would remain far from my life and my family.


	26. The Portrait, Part One

Julia26 (Ch32)

He couldn't cause much trouble, I assured myself as I peeled back the coverlet and eased into bed. He was contained to one room where he would sleep for the remainder of the day and allow me to rest as well.

Soft, cool sheets enveloped me and I sighed as I played with a strand of my hair. Despite my exhaustion I was still unable to close my eyes and drift into sleep. I couldn't remember if I'd refreshed his water or taken him a new blanket. Perhaps I should have given him another pill for his pain or left an additional pillow in the chair.

"Or maybe you should have kissed him," I muttered to myself. Then it would be over and I wouldn't have to wait for him to make up his mind, to test him as I insisted upon doing. We would both have a little slice of what we desperately wanted from one another.

I turned onto my side and forced my eyes closed. I would not think of Erik Kire a moment longer. This was my moment to rest and not fret over him. My goodness, he could work me up like no one else and I doubted he even realized how much he put me out of my mind. Aside from Madame Giry, I wondered if he'd ever had anyone care for him, to mother him as I so readily did each time he came into my home.

In a strange fashion I rather enjoyed caring for him. It made me happy to see him look over a plate of cookies and select his favorite. As the years passed I learned exactly what he liked and how he liked it prepared, so that the plate of cookies I set before him was emptied, with only a smudge of powdered sugar in the corner. He would have licked it clean if I didn't stand at the ready to remove all empty plates and cups. That, I knew, aggravated him, but in a sense I felt it made me more important in his life. I gave to him, I took away from him. It was hardly a loss to him, however, considering what he truly wanted.

Christine stepped into the foreground of my thoughts and threatened to keep me awake. Every photograph I'd ever seen of her made me despise the wretched little waif. She had the most artificial smile and an ungodly wide mouth. Her chin was too small, her eyes set too far apart, almost like an insect…or perhaps a cow. She looked like the type of woman who batted her eyelashes when she laughed and probably fluttered her hand in the air as though she were a delicate China doll. Perhaps she was delicate, but she was also quite dangerous, if Erik's state of being was any indication. I doubted very much that she'd ever kneaded dough and sprinkled it with powdered sugar for the man she loved. I doubted she had done anything for anyone, save herself.

I hated her. I hated her more than anyone or anything in the world—and I didn't know a thing about her other than she had an outstanding voice and could apparently act fairly well. Uncle Luc found her quite delightful. Judging by his reviews, he was her biggest and most outspoken fan. I gave a cynical chuckle to the fact that he adored Christine de Chagny's voice and abhorred Erik's music.

I placed my pillow over my head and considered nursing a snifter of brandy. It was then, when I was almost asleep, that I heard a tremendous crash followed by loud cursing.

"Oh, you," I said under my breath as I rose from bed and ran my hands over my face. "Worse than a dozen children. Worse than a litter of puppies. Worse than the devil himself let loose in my house."

I grumbled to myself all the way down the stairs, wondering what exactly he'd done. It sounded as though he'd felled a tree, but obviously he hadn't. He must have attempted to move the dresser or the bed. It was typical of him to rearrange my furniture. Why should life-threatening injury stop him?

When I entered the guest room, my heart threatened to leap out of my mouth. He was belly-down on the floor, and for one fleeting moment I thought he'd killed himself. He didn't move a muscle, made no indication that he was breathing. How he'd managed to murder himself I had no idea, but with Erik there was no telling what was possible.

And then he released a groan and I knew he was still alive. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or infuriated with him.

He turned his head to the side and looked up at me. Blood stuck to his eyebrows and the tips of his eyelashes. His face was completely crimson, dyed by his own blood.

"My God," I gasped. Fear turned to anger at his foolishness. "What in the hell are you doing on the… You're bleeding…what happened to your head? What in the world are you doing?"

He blinked at me. "I hate him." His voice was weak, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Who? The vicomte?"

"No."

He stopped talking and I realized he'd lost consciousness. Exhaustion…loss of blood…I had no idea what afflicted him, though I was certain stupidity played a large part. My own head pounded as I gathered up several towels and pressed them to his forehead, which continued to bleed. He'd obviously hit his forehead on the dresser, though I couldn't understand what he was doing out of bed. He couldn't have needed anything from the dresser.

"Stupid, stupid, prideful man," I scolded. I nudged his shoulder and attempted to move him onto his back. All of my labor roused him and he stared at me, confusion in his eyes. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"If you didn't give me so much water, I wouldn't be out of bed."

It was a typical answer for him and I rolled my eyes. "Sit up. You've got blood everywhere; my floors, the dresser, your shirt, pants. I should have known that the children would keep the house neat and you, confined to one room, would make it into a sty." I sighed again in frustration. "Must I tie you to the bed?"

A twinkle entered his eyes. "As you wish, Madame."

We stared at each other briefly, but I saw through his words. He'd never, ever allow me or anyone else to restrain him. Despite his attempt at playfulness, I caught the hint of regret in his eyes. Perhaps the beating had reaffirmed his fears of being helpless, of being unable to escape. It was a deep-rooted fear, I knew—one he'd never want me to know because it stemmed from his childhood. As far as he was concerned, he'd never been a child. He'd simply appeared on earth one day a full-grown man with no past, with no surname or family. Perhaps it comforted him to be nameless.

"Idiot," I muttered to break his solemn mood before it started. "You are maddening, do you know that? You are a dreadful pig of a man."

He held the rags over his wounded forehead and glowered, "Take the painting down. I can't stand it a moment longer."

"Is that why you are out of bed?"

"No, I told you why I was out of bed. But I don't want to have him look at you—or me."

Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised me, but I regarded him a moment and couldn't understand why he'd left his bed on account of a painting. At last I rose, walked toward the wall, and removed the family portrait from the wall. Since I had nowhere else to place it, I left it facing backward, propped up against the wall.

I didn't need to face Erik to know he was watching my every move. His breathing had turned harsh and lusty.

"Worse than a dog in heat." I crossed my arms and stood over him. "Up with you, Erik. If you managed to make your way down the hall, I trust you can stand. I'll stitch you up once I clean my hands."

He did his best to mask a grimace of pain as he climbed to his feet. The bruises on his legs must have been deep and painful, as it took him a moment to stand to his full height and take his first step. I watched him briefly before I closed the door and walked to the water closet to scrub my hands.

My throat tightened and tears threatened. He was healing, yes, but he was still weak and in more pain than I knew I could ever tolerate. I imagined what had happened to him in a darkened alley, the way several men had surrounded him like a feral animal they wished to destroy.

Alex had blurted out his distress concerning his father, but I hadn't fully grasped the details until I'd seen him doubled over. He'd been kicked in the shins, in the chest, in the stomach. Punched in the face, hit in the back, clawed at and scratched when he couldn't defend himself… What sort of people treated another human being in such a manner? It wasn't right to beat a dog, much less a man. Or a woman. Or a child.

I was suddenly glad Erik had asked me to remove the painting because I didn't want to see Louis either.

The water in the faucet turned scalding hot and pulled my hands away and allowed them to air dry before I returned to his room and found him sitting in bed with blood drenching his shirt. It looked as though he'd smeared blood from his head all over his pant legs.

This was indeed more difficult than tending an infant. At least the infant didn't talk back or protest.

"You can't lie there covered in blood. Change your clothes," I ordered. I pulled out a new night shirt and matching trousers from the dresser and left them hanging over the bedside chair.

"Are you staying?" he asked casually.

Once again he'd caught me off guard. At first my eyes widened, then narrowed in feigned disgust. "You have ten minutes. If you are not properly dressed when I return, you may stitch yourself up."


	27. Mischief Maker

This is converted from a .doc file to a plain text document, which took forever to respace. If there are any problems with the formatting I'm aware of it but couldn't do any more. Thanks for reading.

Julia27

Alex and Lisette returned from their afternoon adventure moments after I left Erik alone to change his clothes. They entered through the kitchen door just as I poured myself a glass of water, quiet as obedient little mice, and inquired about Erik's health.

It always surprised me at how polite and concerned Alex was with others. He'd been that way as long as I could recall, and the way he nodded and blinked reminded me of Madame Lowry, whom I knew he adored. She was almost a big sister to him rather than his teacher's wife—or even an aunt.

Meg had come to my home once or twice complaining about Alex's antics, then saying how much she adored him in the next breath. He was, I think, as close as she ever expected to come to having a child of her own.

"Your father is exhausted still, but he's gaining back his strength."

"May I see him?"

"Soon, Alex," I promised. "You are both very kind to keep your voices down," I said to them.

"Alex said his father will feel better when he has toffee, the kind topped with chocolate and nuts."

Alex readily nodded and licked his lips. "He will. That's the honest truth."

"I'm not sure he should be filling himself with toffee just yet, Alex, but it is very nice of you to think of your father's sweet tooth."

"Grand-mere says all of his teeth are sweet."

"I'm sure they are."

Erik cursed loudly in the guest room, his muffled words still very much distinguishable. He normally was a respectable gentleman who often muttered, but rarely used such language. I was immediately concerned about his level of tolerance for pain.

"Oh, Mother, you should tell him not to say those words," Lissy dramatically gasped. She'd spent far too much time watching my friend Hermine practice for the leading roles in plays she never managed to be chosen for, the poor thing.

"Will both of you stay out of trouble a bit longer? Play nicely upstairs."

Lisette took on a haughty pose. "We're not playing. I told Alex he must learn to embroider his name on a pillow. It's Her Majesty's orders."

Alex rolled his eyes. "I beg your pardon."

"I am the queen and Alex is my servant."

"No, I'm a knight, but I'm going to behead you if you insist on being bossy."

"I wouldn't be queen if I wasn't bossy," she pointed out. Alex looked ready to wallop her but he merely took a deep breath. I wondered from where he summoned his patience since his father was an extremely impatient man.

"We'll be very, very quiet," he promised.

I kissed them both on the forehead and watched them scamper up the stairs, whispering to one another. When Lissy's door closed, I gathered some clean towels and boric acid and returned to Erik, who had finished dressing.

"What is it?" he asked as I sat hard into the chair and rubbed my eyes. He looked genuinely concerned, which surprised me. In his moment of need, I had never expected him to care for anyone other than himself.

"Nothing." I forced a smile to reassure him I was fine. "Close your eyes and lay your head back"

"You look exhausted," he commented. "Your eyes…you have terrible circles beneath them. What is wrong with you?"

"You are not the only one who needs to be cared for in the house," I replied as I dabbed at his forehead and cleaned his face. His lips contorted but he didn't protest, which was for the best since I was in no mood to listen to him argue with me.

I was exhausted, and since the moment he'd stepped into my home, I'd felt my life drain away on behalf of his. There would be no leisurely strolls down the street to visit the friends and acquaintances I often sewed for in order to make extra money. It was never much, though I had dreams of opening my own little storefront where I could sell fabrics and mend shirts, dresses, trousers…anything, really. Out of everyone in my family I had the least sense for business, which meant my dream would never be realized.

I did, however, have many referrals to my home to sew small patches on men's pants. I had a handful of older men who always came to my door with sheepish grins and a bag of clothing in need of attention. They were the hard-working type, their faces ruddy beneath the dirt and grime. They never paid me much—because I never charged them much—but it meant a great deal to have someone look after them.

"How is Alex?" Erik questioned as I dried his face.

"Occupied. Lean forward."

"Julia." He looked me in the eye and exhaled. Lightly he shook his head and didn't continue.

He did as I asked and I hesitated a moment, knowing full well I was being too harsh on him. The beating was far worse than just physical. I, of all people, should have remembered that, but I wanted to be angry with him. I didn't understand why I felt this way, but I knew it was childish. Dryly I thought to myself If he'd only seen the love I, St. Julia, had for him, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble.

Our eyes met, and I looked at him with sympathy. Gently I caressed the back of his bruised hand.

"I'm here to take care of you," I said softly. "Next time, if you need to get out of bed you call me and I'll help you into the wheelchair."

"It was the damned wheelchair that tripped me," he said under his breath.

"You're truly impossible. Now, sit very still and let me have a look at you."

His flesh was bruised and swollen, tender as an overly ripe plum. If there was any other option, I would have preferred to simply bandage him and gently kiss his forehead. Judging by his hunched shoulders and heavy breathing, he expected pain. His life seemed to be filled with moments of waiting, anticipating pain. I didn't want to be part of that. I decided to move swiftly and get it over with to ease his suffering.

"My God, that hurts," he muttered shortly after I pierced his flesh. A trickle of blood flowed down to his brow and I repositioned the towel.

"I expected so. Relax"

"Relax? There is a piece of curved metal moving beneath my skin," he said under his breath. Tears welled in his partially closed eyes and he blinked rapidly. He swallowed hard and grunted. "Had you not been so concerned over a portrait, you wouldn't be stitched up again," I told him. I briefly met his eye. "My champion and defender."

He snorted, not amused in the least. "I hate him."

"So do I," I whispered, focusing on my task at hand.

His nose began to run and I wasn't sure if he was bothered by the pain or his emotions. I handed him another towel and he dabbed his eyes, then wiped his nose. "Then why do you keep it, hmm? That ignorant, worthless bastard has no place in your home, damn it."

I paused, taken aback by his question and burst of anger. Blood continued to seep from his open wound and I was surprised he could still function. He'd lost a great deal of blood in a short amount of time. "For Lisette."

"So that she may cherish a man who hit her mother?" he snarled. "Why in the hell would you want her to remember anything about him? That's completely asinine."

"So that she may know her father and love him. She has no one else besides me. If she can look at it and find peace in his image, so be it," I answered.

With a sigh I shoved a clean towel into his grasp and tilted his chin up so that I could better see the flap of skin in need of repair. "You're still bleeding badly. Hold the towel a moment. I need something more to clear the blood."

There was some gauze and more thread in the bedside table, which I now needed in order to clean him up. When I turned to face him again, his face was unusually pale, his eyes wide with horror.

I tilted my head to the side. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

I could hardly believe that, but I could pry at him for hours and he'd never tell me. Perhaps I didn't really want to know what he was up to, though I suspected he was ogling me. I'd gone from St. Julia to Madame Vain.

"It looks like the blood has stopped flowing so quickly. Close your eyes again."

"Why didn't you ever marry again?" he asked suddenly.

Never in a million years would I have expected him to ask me why I'd never re-married. To me it seemed obvious.

"I had you."

He grunted like a pig. "You'd be happier if you weren't here alone."

"Would I?"

"Yes, of course you would be. Don't act coy, Madame."

"I'm not."

His legs moved beneath the sheets as I gave in to his needs for a game of mental absurdity. A harmless, friendly argument was just what he needed to brighten his mood—and quite possibly mine as well.

"You need someone to look after you."

"Just like a sheep," I muttered.

"I never said that."

"Then like a dog."

He could barely contain himself. Every so often he'd allow his gentler side to ease through. It never happened often enough, but when it did I clung to those moments. "Dogs are far less trouble than the fairer sex," he replied.

"Would Bessie sew you up?" I mused.

"Yes, if she had hands rather than paws."

I chuckled. "What a shame."

"What's a shame is a woman like you alone in this house."

I paused and he opened his eyes, looking as though he knew he'd overstepped some hidden boundary.

"I never wanted to marry in the first place," I confessed. "Louis was my grandfather's design. They knew each other from the army, where Louis excelled and won Pappi's heart, not mine. Pappi thought he would be good for me. He always said Louis would tame my spirit." I paused, wondering why I decided to tell him this—wondering why I'd never told him before. "There is a saying: blue eyes, soul of the devil. He was always certain that I was possessed by something because I had a mind of my own and that was, above all else, the most undesirable trait in a woman. He and Mammi both thought if I didn't marry Louis I'd never marry. They were convinced the convent wouldn't take me."

"What does an arranged marriage have to do with you never marrying again?" he persisted.

"My brother Max would find me a suitable match if I showed the slightest interest in marrying again. He thinks I am still in mourning. No, I take that back. He knows I was never in mourning. He suspects I have become a woman of low station. He thinks it is perverse that there is a man who comes to my home several times a week."

"He knows?" Erik looked downright delighted.

"He suspects I am entertaining a man." Where he'd gotten this idea I didn't know. Most certainly it wasn't from Archie or Hermine, two of my closest friends, or my cousin Anthony who couldn't stand Max and had hated Louis possibly more than I did. "The last time I saw him, he told me that when I came to my senses, he would find a man forgiving enough to take me"  
He was furious. But he never said so outright.

"Why do you look so terrible—" He paused, realizing his mistake. "Your eyes are red. Why are you so tired."

"I can't sleep." I continued to stitch him up. "And don't you even say a word that I need someone with me at night."

"Why aren't you sleeping, then."

"I don't know."

This was the man I loved, the one who easily spoke to me in private. I hadn't seen him in so long that I feared he no longer existed, but here he was, looking at me from behind a face stained with blood. "This is excruciating. The least you could do at the moment is tell me the truth."

I didn't have the heart to tell him it was partially because of his demands. In all honesty, even if he'd been the perfect patient I still could not have closed my eyes and slept. At last I realized why I was angry with him.


	28. Allowed Inside at Last

A/N Whoever was afraid I wouldn't be updating for a while should be happy. LOL. As long as ff holds, I might have another update tomorrow.

Also, you'll notice several changes from Erik's POV to Julia's here, so those of you who think you've memorized Heart are in for a hopefully pleasant surprise. You don't know what a compliment it is to have people know and expect a certain emotion or reaction from my characters, even if it doesn't turn out exactly as you thought. It makes me do a mental fist pump. I love you all and thank you for your reviews.

Gabrina

Julia28

I took a deep breath. The agony he suffered was not yet over.

"It's Alexandre," I whispered.

Erik sat forward. "What has he done now?"

"No, he's done nothing. I'm…I'm afraid for him, Erik."

He understood exactly what I meant but he wouldn't admit to sharing the same fears. His bruised face darkened, his eyes cast down. He gave a slight, barely noticeable nod.

"When I close my eyes, I see the Comte de Chagny," I told him. Tears overwhelmed me as I thought of this brute of a man entering my home. There was no telling what he would do to the children or to me. "I think he'll know that Alex is here, hiding from him. I keep seeing him knock on the front door, push me aside, and take Alex. If he tried, there is nothing I could do to stop him and it frightens me. I don't want him to hurt Alexandre."

"He won't come here."

"You have no idea what he would do."

"No, I don't, but if he comes here...if he comes near Alex, I will kill him. If he so much as touches you—if he even thinks of touching you—I will rip his head from his shoulders."

I shook my head and dried the tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. "A pleasant thought."

"No one will hurt you," he said firmly. "No one. Julia, I swear to you. I won't allow it."

I nodded and rose from his bedside, feeling a swell of gratitude. Maddening as he was, he was true of heart and more loyal than anyone I'd ever met. He would care for me if it killed him, and he would defend Alex at all cost.

Stifling a yawn, I straightened my wrinkled dress, and opened the drawer to toss in the spool of thread and unused towels. The thread slipped from my grasp and fell onto the head of a small, wax figurine.

I stared in complete disbelief for quite some time, completely unable to comprehend what I was looking at. Without a doubt it was Christine de Chagny. The doll no longer had a face. Indeed, she was missing paint to her breasts and to the center of her hips, which was only more revealing.

For reasons far beyond explanation, I scooped up the damned thing and examined it as though I'd find the answers by holding it. Erik was breathing harder, which I imagined was in direct response to his mortification.

I wanted to ask how in the hell he'd managed to smuggle it into my home. My God, he must have had it with him the night he'd gone to her hotel room. I'd never seen it before, but I wondered if he often carried this sexual doll with him. Perhaps he brought it to my house on the nights he came over for tea. It sickened me to think of it in his overcoat pocket, waiting for him as I took him to my bed.

"This is her?" I asked at last, barely able to speak.

He bowed his head and swallowed. Swollen fingers flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed over the beige blanket I'd placed over his legs. I wondered what went through his mind as I stood over him: me, his former lover; me, his current nurse; me, the woman who looked at him and never once flinched the way hundreds of people before—including Christine—had before they turned away. It hurt me deeply that he had this toy, this child's play thing, in a drawer beside his bedside, beside _my bedside, in my guest room_.

Valiantly, foolishly, I trudged on. I had to know. I had to torment myself and him.

"I suspect you have no explanation to give willingly?" I carelessly tossed the figurine into the drawer.

"No." His voice was barely a whisper.

I couldn't look at him, not now. Only moments ago I'd confessed my concerns regarding Alex, and in the same moment Erik had promised to protect me. This felt like betrayal.

"I find it quite ironic, Monsieur, that you cannot accept that there is a picture of my dead husband within my house when you have a wax figurine of a woman who left you for dead in an alley at your bedside," I said viciously.

I wanted to shame him, to wound him, as I felt wounded by that ridiculous object. It wasn't that I wanted him to fall on his knees and thank me for helping him, for putting up with him, but I wanted to be the only woman he loved. At long last I thought I was the woman he loved. Yet still, despite everything, he wanted Christine.

It was time for me to give up my foolish dream. He cared for me, he just wasn't in love with me. I'd been his whore for too long.

I heard a loud cracking sound behind me and I jumped, turning to face him. The figurine I'd put away only moments earlier was shattered against the bedside table. I watched him toss it into a pile of sullied towels.

"You'll miss her," I said under my breath, still intending to hurt him but not speaking loud enough for him to hear me. I didn't want him to know I was jealous of an object. It was impossible to tell which of us was more embarrassed by it.

"That is how much I think of her," he said. His eyes were bloodshot with tears and he wiped his hand on an unused towel and tossed it onto the pile. "That is how much I need her memory."

"Erik—"

"I don't want her, Julia. I don't want anything to do with her."

"How long have you had it?" I asked.

"Since she…left me." He struggled to speak. No matter how much I had thought I wanted to hurt him, in my heart I was sick of seeing him hurt. "Since I thought she'd killed the child I had put inside of her…since before I knew any better." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "My, God," he muttered. "Far too long."

I solemnly nodded. There were no words I could offer in comfort and certainly nothing snide I wanted to add. The figurine had nothing to do with me. It was part of his past that I didn't yet know.

We regarded each other tentatively, neither of us knowing what to do or say. I realized how broken we both were, how we'd spent so many years ignoring what we needed. Mutually we agreed to no longer search, and as we settled into a rhythm, I found I was not always happy, but content enough to enjoy the moments.

We'd never discussed a future together. One day to the next was all that mattered. I hadn't dreamed two, three years ago, that the mother of his son would reappear in his life and become a cancer to our meager relationship. I'd always had this hazy fantasy of him one day staying the night with me and then never leaving. The exact details never emerged, but I saw myself as his wife and he as my grumbling but attentive husband.

I stared at the two chunks of painted wax for a moment. Christine wasn't here. I was here with him, and I would persevere with or without him in my life. Suddenly I was no longer angry with him, but grateful for the years which had passed. If he loved me as I deserved, as we deserved, then he would realize it. There was nothing more I could do for him, no way to make myself perfect to fit his every need.

With one hand on the bed to brace myself, I pushed his hair back from his face and regarded him a moment. He wouldn't meet my eye, which I expected, but I waited until he finally looked at me. I needed him to look at me.

"I will leave tonight," he said softly. Humiliation showed clearly in his eyes. I could have sworn he was afraid of me, of what I would think of him now. "Leave you without this...this burden."

"Rest," I said simply.

With years of tenderness and affection behind my actions, I softly kissed his cheek. It was as much for me as it was for him, a gesture I'd never before been allowed. Since the day I'd first invited him to my room I'd wanted to touch his face, but he was uncomfortable.

We were at the lowest station possible now. If he wouldn't allow me to touch my lips to his face now, it would never happen.

Tears steamed down his cheeks, but despite his agony I felt him relax. I kissed his neck, then kissed his damp cheek again before I covered him with a blanket and left him to sleep a while longer. He sank into bed and drew his knees up. Softly he wept, and though I had reservations of leaving him alone, I knew he needed to sleep again, to allow his mind a moment of peace.

Quietly I closed the bedroom door and stood there for a moment. He allowed me in at last. There was hope for us yet.


	29. Bearing Gifts

Julia29

"Have I lost my mind?"

Meg and I sat together in the dining room with a carafe of hot coffee. I'd managed an hour-long nap before I heard someone knocking at the back door, and hoped it was nothing serious. More than sleep I needed to speak with another woman, and I was delighted to find Meg Lowry lending not only her ear but also delivering a pot roast for the following night. She said it was a gift from her mother for "all of the trouble" I'd gone through.

"Of course you haven't lost your mind," Meg replied.

"Are you certain?"

"You look sane to me. Tired, perhaps, but you're not doing anything out of the ordinary."

"Aside from—"

"Well, the obvious." She smiled and sipped her coffee. What I enjoyed most about Meg was her playful side. It was easy to see why Monsieur Lowry had courted her for years. He was over the moon for her and it showed. Truly, it was easy to fall in love with her because she was always kind and willing to share a moment of her time.

"May I ask how he is feeling?"

"Tired," I answered. There was no use in embarrassing him. She didn't need to know he'd exhausted himself into a deep sleep.

Meg nodded. Unlike Erik, she took much more cream and only a teaspoon of sugar, which I watched her stir into her cup. "Is he healing…well?"

"I needed to stitch his forehead again."

"Oh." Her nose wrinkled in concern. "Why is that?"

"A minor issue," I said to quell her fears. "But I expect in a few days he'll be able to walk around without any trouble."

Again she nodded. "Mother wanted me to ask you how he was feeling. I'll be sure to tell her that he's healing well."

"She's more than welcome to pay a visit whenever she would like."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't want to intrude. She's very conscious of his need for privacy."

"Yes, but even if she doesn't see him, she may visit. Really, it's no trouble at all, and perhaps she'd feel better coming inside. I would love to have her over for tea sometime."

"Well, another time, then, when everything has slowed down. You know she's concerned about the dog."

"The dog? Is she sick?" I feared another thing for Erik to worry about.

"No, she's fine, but you know how Mother is. I suppose she thinks it's a good excuse to stay at home and fuss."

We shared an uncomfortable smile. I wasn't sure if Madame Giry was apprehensive to visit him or if she didn't wish to see me. Our relationship was always balanced on a string, and there were days when she greeted me with a smile and others when she would see me and look the other way. It depended on whether Erik had paid me a visit the previous night.

It was difficult, as I knew she disapproved of my sins with her son. However, he was a grown man of nearly forty years of age. He was allowed to decide what was best for him, regardless of what she thought. Now more than ever, I wanted to remind her that I was not the reason he was lying in bed.

I stared at Meg and pursed my lips. "You were friends with Madame de Chagny, weren't you?"

Her face flushed and she attempted to hide her look of surprise with her coffee mug. "A long time ago, yes. A very long time ago, it seems."

"If you wouldn't mind me asking, what was she like?"

I could tell she very much minded that I asked. She stared at the saucer and chewed on her lower lip. "She was…just another dancer." Meg's demure answer was as quiet as a mouse.

"Is that all?" I asked sardonically.

"Well, what do you want to know about her?" she asked defensively.

"Anything." Couldn't she see I was desperate for answers? "I just…that is to say, I would like to know what she was like, in case she pays a visit."

Her eyes widened. "I highly doubt—"

"If her husband was at your doorstep then what is to say she would not come to mine? If either of them knew that you, or Alex, or Lisette, traveled from one house to the next, I would not put it past her."

"She was rarely the same person twice. There. Is that what you wanted to know?"

I was taken aback by her answer and stammered, "I beg your pardon?"

"One minute she didn't have a care in the world, the next she acted as though she was on the verge of death. Sometimes she spoke of a wonderful voice that guided her through her darkest days, the next there was a man in her wardrobe telling her to stab herself with her letter opener. She spoke every day of her father and how much she loved him and how her love for him would return him from the dead. When I told her it would not… Well, she slapped me across the face and pulled my hair. I didn't talk to her for a week. By then she was happy as could be again and had forgotten what I had said."

"She was mad?"

"No, not mad. She was sensitive."

That sounded like her mother's all-too-kind answer for madness. I politely nodded and looked away, frustrated by her answers. I had expected her to say that Madame de Chagny slept with any man who smiled at her. I wanted to hear Meg say the chorus girl was a spoiled, rotten little brat. Madness evoked my sympathies, as I had seen first-hand the appalling conditions of an asylum. For my own petty jealousies, I needed her to be completely sane and competent. I wanted to hate her, but now I felt sorry for her.

"Did she have many suitors?"

"Does it honestly matter, Julia? Their relationship…or whatever they would call it…it doesn't matter anymore, if it ever mattered at all. I will tell you this only because I love you very much and I'm tired of seeing you search for what you know full well is directly in front of you. Stop being so damned petty."

"Petty? You take one look in my guest room and tell me their time together never mattered. It does matter." My voice quivered and I set aside my coffee mug in order to wring my hands beneath the table. "It matters so much that he would have died for her."

She noisily stirred her coffee and refused to look me in the eye. "In the end, don't you think it's more important who he would live for?"

My breath caught in my throat. Swallowing hard, I nodded and reached out and took her hand. "Thank you."

She chuckled. "You're most welcome."

"What's so funny?"

"I just thought I should warn you not to come to me for such brilliant advice every day," she said with a warm smile.

She helped me to clear the table and I saw her to the back door.

"Your husband has a brilliant mind, why wouldn't you?" I asked.

"Not everyone would believe I married him for his intelligence. Before the war people would have said I married him because he was a handsome young man. When he returned they whispered it was out of duty…or pity."

"I don't believe that for a moment."

"Good. I married him because I wanted to, and I never have and never will regret it."

I looked her over. There was something she wasn't telling me, but I assumed I'd pried enough.

"Are you returning home?"

"Yes, I should," she answered. "By now Mother has probably badgered poor Charles to death with her worrying and her questions."

I told her thank you again, watched her leave, and prepared to face Erik, wondering what his mood would be like when he was awake. I thought myself fortunate that Meg had delivered a roast. I could slip slices of meat in its juices under the door and distract him before I entered.


	30. A Visitor at the Door

You can read all about my doggie rescue high jinx on my website under "Ask Gordon". It's what's been making updates slow.

Julia28

I woke him gently.

For the man that he was, he managed an unusually deep sleep. The slightest disturbance always woke me at night, but I could have pounded a nail into the wall above his head and I think he would have slept through it. A caress to the side of his neck, however, could not be ignored.

Despite my care, I still managed to startle him and he instantly grabbed my wrist until he registered who I was and where he lay. When our eyes met I could have sworn I saw each thought in his gaze. As though to confirm it, he touched his face where I had kissed him earlier, and in response I placed my hand over his.

"Why?" he rasped.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you…why did you do this?" It was more of a demand than a simple question.

Outside in the yard I heard Lissy singing and Alex telling her to stop. With a grunt I smiled at him and watched as he turned his head toward the window and listened as Lissy sang even louder.

"Why did I kiss you?"

He nodded but wouldn't look at me. He was either deep in thought or doing everything within his power to avoid me.

"Because this is the first time in five years that I've seen you care about anything outside of your own personal gratification."

I squared my shoulders, preparing myself for an onslaught of undignified responses, shouts or hisses fueled by his pain or his disbelief. Instead a breath rattled through him and he broke down once more. He made barely a sound, but his shoulders shook and his body trembled with emotion. I didn't know what to say or what to do. He meant more to me than he realized and I hated to see him suffer. All I could do for him was to hold him, give him a physical reminder that I was beside him.

My fingers caressed the length of his spine and he arched his back when I touched his shoulder blades. He was still quite tender and I wondered if I caused him more pain by holding him. Perhaps his need was too great to trifle over bruises.

At last he was vocal in his emotional suffering. I knew he didn't cry out from physical pain. After all this time he now understood how much I cared for him, and perhaps in the same moment he understood that he cared for me as well, even if he didn't want to admit it. If he had not, he would have died in an alley. He would not have allowed himself to be taken home, regardless of whose home it was.

Between labored breaths he whispered my name and wrapped his arms around me, gently at first, before he drew me closer and buried his face in the crook of my neck. I kissed the side of his head and ran my fingers through his hair until he could compose himself. Our arms entwined, it didn't take long before he was able to speak.

"All of our nights together," he murmured. "And never once…" He sighed but didn't elaborate. His shoulder relaxed and he inhaled deeply. Very gently he brushed a strand of hair away from my face and studied me.

He had a curious expression, as though he'd suddenly noticed the shape of my face. With a frown he traced his thumb over my temple and I knew what he had seen: The little scar, a misshapen triangle at the outside corner of my eye.

"When Lisette was born, Louis threw a vase of flowers at me. His cousin had sent them to congratulate us on the birth of a healthy daughter."

His pale eyes grew cold, angry. But I sensed that he didn't know why he should be angry—and he had no idea that I was angry with myself for attempting to make my daughter's childhood something happy and bright.

I disgusted myself by spinning yarns of a loving father and caring man, only to soothe a distressed brow later in the evening when she woke from a nightmare. I wanted to make it better, to ease what I should have prevented. I knew I couldn't change the past, but I didn't want to acknowledge it, either.

"Why?" he asked softly.

"He wanted a son, Erik."

He exhaled hard and shook his head. His morose expression never changed as he caressed my face, his gaze trained on my lips. I smiled at him, silently giving him permission to explore my face with his newfound tenderness.

More than anything I wanted him physically. It seemed like an age since we had shared an intimate bond. I craved the feel of his flesh against mine, the sensation of a hot breath against my throat, broad hands gripping my hips. Our relationship, I knew, would deepen, expand, now that we were no longer at an impasse but together at last…physically and emotionally.

A thousand thoughts came to mind, some of them endearments, some of them whispers of affection and how I knew he would finally understand,_ I_ would finally understand. We were not enemies. We were longtime friends and lovers.

That was what I wanted to tell him, but the doorbell rang and he nearly poked me in the eye. He grunted—or rather growled—in protest of our interruption. With his nostrils flared, he looked as frustrated as I felt. My toes curled in my shoes and I squeezed my thighs together as an all too familiar ache lingered.

"There is someone at the door."

He cocked a brow at me, questioning why I had stated what was obvious. We regarded each other a moment, but before he could make some snide comment, I cleared my throat and fixed my hair.

"Don't be roaming about the house, do you hear me? You still need your strength…or your rest, rather."

"I'm fine."

"I know how you are," I said, wagging my finger at him.

"Madame, I swear on my life I will not leave your bed."

I turned my head to the side and felt my face flush. "Erik," I warned, though I much enjoyed the thought of him in my bed with his arms around me, his hips pressed to mine. With any luck, I could steal away to the front door and send the caller away at once. Then, with the children away and the house still, perhaps we could enjoy a quiet moment to become reacquainted.

I was surprised to find Lissy in the hallway, apparently on her way to retrieve me.

"Who is it, Lis?"

"There is a woman at the door, Mama." She dutifully stood with her chin up and arms trained at her side like a most obedient young servant. Undoubtedly, she'd learned that from Hermine as well.

"Of course, my dear," I replied. "Please, there is no need for dramatics today, Lissy. You know Madame Giry."

She lifted her right hand and twirled her braid around her finger. With a roll of her eyes she broke her perfect posture and shifted her weight. "No, Mama, it isn't Alex's grand-mere. I've never seen this woman before."

A breath hitched in my throat. "A woman selling something?" I sighed, but it was barely a sigh. The sound I made was more of a choking noise, as though invisible hands threatened to strangle me.

"No, Mama." She was losing her patience with me now. "She says it is very urgent."

"Who is she?" I snapped.

Lisette shrugged and ignored my outburst. "She wouldn't tell me. She only batted her eyelashes and said it was 'matters a child could never understand'."

I gripped her by the shoulders. "You and Alex run to the bakery at once and tell Uncle Anthony I sent you to help him decorate cookies."

She nodded, her eyes alight with the prospect of making a sugary mess. "I will make Monsieur Kire cookies with pink icing. That will make him feel better."

"Good. Make sure you add lots and lots of icing for him."

"So much icing that it touches the clouds," she replied with a devious smile.

I watched her skip down the hall and into the kitchen. My only hope was that she and Alex were safe. For the moment, it was better if they were away from my home. I feared that the visitor at the door would see Alexandre and attempt to remove him from his father's care.

Taking a breath, I wiped my hand across my forehead and hoped to God my face shined with an ethereally healthy glow, and that my dress flattered my trim hips and accented what was still evident from my childbearing figure. The audacity of that woman to come to my home! She had no idea who she was confronting, but when she left my front porch, she would never forget my name.


	31. The Comtess de Chagny

Julia31

As long as she stayed away from my home, my family, and my life, I could pity her, but the moment she intruded, I despised her. There was no time to muster dignity or prepare an insincere greeting. Both Alex and Lissy stood in the foyer, and I hoped to God she hadn't seen Alex. I feared she'd barge into my home and pretend to care for him, to mock his palpable pain with feigned concern for his well-being.

I had no tolerance for her games. If she knew what was good for her, she'd leave at once.

"Mama, who is she?" Lisette questioned. "She's awfully rude and insistent."

"She's no one," I answered rather loudly, certain Erik would be listening if he could inch toward his bedroom door. When I looked at her and Alex, however, I wondered if I'd spoken too harshly. Madame de Chagny still claimed the role of birth mother, no matter how much she failed to fill his life.

"May I stay with Father? I've grown tired of sewing," Alex said with a weary sigh to accent his lack of strength now that Lisette had turned him into a seamstress.

"Not now, my dear. Both of you return upstairs and read a while."

"But why?" Lissy whined.

"Because I've asked you very nicely to read," I answered through my teeth. "Don't argue with me."

Alex gave her a look, which I assumed was meant to urge Lisette up the stairs and out of the way. At last it worked and she turned from me, obviously insulted that she was forced upstairs like a child. God forbid I didn't treat her as though she were twenty years of age, not going on ten. I didn't want to think about what it would be like when she was sixteen years of age and fancied boys.

I watched them stomp up the stairs. Lissy went directly to her room, but Alex lingered a moment and studied me. He wanted answers, I knew, and I couldn't blame him. Just as his father had kept him from his mother, now so did I. However, where Erik wanted this woman all to himself, I wanted nothing to do with her. In the end, she would only hurt him—both of them.

"Go on, Alex," I said gently. Knowing it wouldn't help, I still offered him a smile of love and encouragement.

"Yes, Madame Seuratti," he replied, a hint of sadness in his voice the only indication of how he felt.

My throat tightened. Was it me, or did he address me with a certain coldness I suddenly felt I deserved. There was no time to explain my intentions to him, and it broke my heart to see him turn away to follow Lissy. None of this was his fault, none of it.

The last image of him being shut out again lingered in my mind, and as I opened the front door, I stared coldly at this poor excuse for a mother. I wanted to ask her how she could have ever left him, but instead I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.

"Yes?"

She appeared younger than I'd first realized. With the most fraudulent smile I had ever seen, she greeted me.

"Hello, yes, Madame," she cooed. "I do apologize for intruding upon your home."

She waited for me to reply, but I only stared at her.

"Hello," she said again. "I'm truly sorry if this seems a bit odd, I know you're probably wondering why I'm here—"

"Who are you?"

Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground. For a moment she struggled to keep her composure, then she offered another smile, followed by a swipe of her hand to remove a stray lock of hair from her face.

"My name is Comtess Christine de—"

I coughed as rudely as possible to show her how little I cared about her name and title.

"I'm looking for someone," she said without missing a beat.

"There is no one here."

Her smile barely contained her frustration. "No?" A single world held all the venom in the world. "Yes, there is. I know there is."

I'd had enough of her. "Good day."

She stopped the door before I could close it, her eyes wide and cow-like. All she needed was hooves to be the perfect little bovine. "No, wait! Please, Madame, please I beg of you to wait!"

Her words caught my attention before I slammed the door in her face. She sounded desperate, but I wasn't about to fall for her tricks. This was not the stage, this was my life and my family, and I'd be damned if she hurt Alex. He was more my child than hers. He'd been my child for years, whether Erik or Christine ever knew it. She'd never washed a skinned knee or listened to him to tell the same joke for two weeks in a row. She'd never fed him lunch or mopped up after his muddy shoes tromped through the kitchen and down the hall.

"I'm a terribly busy woman, Madame. I have a household to look after."

"Please, only a moment," she requested. "I must know. I've always wanted to know. You cannot turn me away now, now that I'm so close to answers."

"Madame—"

"Comtess," she corrected. "I've worked very hard in my life to acquire this title. I expect you to use it."

The edge in her voice reminded me that this was not a woman who had mental stability. I treaded lightly—or as lightly as I could.

"Madame, you have yet to say anything of worth for me to continue leaving this door open."

Her eyes grew wide and fearful. I took a small step back from her.

"He's here," she whispered.

Now she frightened me. I knew from experience that the insane were often inhumanely strong. I'd always wondered why those who had little control over their minds were blessed with such strength. There had been a man in the hospital ward who'd returned from combat with a terrible head wound. No one thought he'd survived, and if there had been any mercy in the world, he would have died rather than wake from a terrible, fitful sleep. For months I had nightmares of him in violent rages, his arms and legs tied down to the bed in order to keep him subdued. He'd bite his tongue and have no reaction, and I never understood why. One of the doctors said it was the effect of combat, though not one of the men from his infantry suffered the same fate.

I didn't want to see this woman on my porch turn from docile to enraged. I had my doubts that I could subdue her, and even I could, the commotion would draw Lissy and Alex downstairs.

"I saw him. You brought him here, from the alley. You brought him here, to your home. He was in some sort of a wheeled chair," she said in childlike fascination. "Yes, I saw him. I saw all of you, but you did not see me."

She was raving mad—and she now held fast to my hand.

"Madame, with all due respect, you have only given me your first name and nothing more. Now you tell me that you are looking for someone. No, you don't tell me, you insist that I have brought someone here to my home, from an alley, and you haven't given me a name for this person," I said, but my voice lacked calm. Her eyes narrowed, lips crinkled with disgust. "Now please—"

"Oh God, he's possessed you, hasn't he?" Christine gasped. "He's inside your head. He's claimed you…he's taken you against your will, just as he did to me all those years ago."

I stared at her bone white hand covering mine, and my spine stiffened. If I pulled away now, I feared she'd lash out at me. All I could do is stand there and wait, hoping she would let go on her own accord.

"We have much in common, Madame," she said gently.

Now this was a nightmare turned reality.


	32. Betrayal at the Door

A/N: Please check out my website for Read for Rescues!

Julia32

The bedroom door creaked open, the floorboards moaned with the weight of a man who couldn't sit still for one damned moment. Christine continued to clutch my hand in her vice-like grasp. I feared to turn, to acknowledge Erik's presence in the hallway.

What in the hell was he doing, anyway? Was this all a game to him, I wondered. If so he'd tossed me directly in the middle of this insanity. All I could think of was he'd better hope to God Christine de Chagny stayed a good long while. He wouldn't want to face me once she returned to whatever corner of hell she'd emerged from.

"He's claimed you in his vile grasp," she whispered, her voice intense. "Hypnotized you with his snake's eyes and his murmur of a voice. What he does with his voice, Madame, it is indecent."

"I apologize, Madame, but you are speaking nonsense. No one has claimed me." And if he had any intention of claiming me he'd find himself alone in his bed with only the soft sheets and his hand as company, quite possibly for the rest of his life. Look at her, Erik, I thought. Bask in the glory of your precious Christine. Look at all the trouble she's gone through just to see you one last time.

She ignored my words.

"His voice. His voice is hypnotizing, soothing almost if you close your eyes and just listen. It's only mesmerizing and dangerous if you listen and don't see him. Oh God, if you see him…Please, Madame, he is dangerous, he is very, very dangerous."

"Perhaps I could call you a carriage?" I suggested, attempting to show her that she bored me.

"You know who he is. You know exactly who he is, that monster."

"Monster?" Bloody hell. Did I need to shove her from my porch into the bushes?

"He is a terrible, blood-thirsty monster. He feeds off virgins," she whispered, her eyes wide with horror.

At last I pulled my hand away. "I am no virgin. I consider myself safe."

She looked over my shoulder, her expression appearing almost enchanted. Rather than hate, I felt a stab of pity for her. She had no idea what she was saying or doing. All she could mutter was 'monster' and incoherent nonsense.

"My dear lady, monsters are nothing more than ploys to frighten children. They are not real." I stepped back from the door and crossed one ankle behind the other. I turned my head just enough to catch sight of Erik standing there with his hand over his face.

God damn you, I thought. You ignorant, ignorant, selfish bastard.

"Yes, yes, you're right and you're wrong," Christine blabbered on, wringing her hands now that she no longer had possession of mine. "Monsters are meant to frighten children, and in my childhood there was no bigger threat, no darker shadow than what he was. He took me into his world and he forced me to do unspeakable things to him."

Erik exhaled hard behind me. If I hadn't already seen him, he would have given himself away.

Christine seemed encouraged by his reaction. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as though she wanted to hurt him in every way possible.

"But he is a coy bastard, Madame. I had no idea what he was until it was too late, until he made me…in the family way. He is real but he is not. He is a coy one, a conniving one. Please, you must help me. You don't know what he is, not really. You don't know what he's done. He has killed, he has…"

My head pounded. Her words were little more than a pathetic ploy for attention. At last I mustered the courage to send her away. If she so desired, she could talk to the door.

"Good day, Madame."

"Wait!" She smacked the door with her hand and attempted to wiggle inside. Lisette whimpered from the top of the stairs. I wanted to turn and scream at her to return to her room at once.

"Give this to him," Christine said quickly. She held out an envelope and shook it in my face as though it were a bird's wing. "Give this to Erik."

She looked him directly in the eye. I could almost feel the force of their gazes meeting, the power she held over everyone. My God, she was conniving.

"What is it?" I asked casually, looking it over without a hint of interest.

"It's a note."

"For this monster you speak of?"

There was no reply. Amazingly, she couldn't find her tongue. While she stared like a dumb beast, I studied the envelope. It reeked of perfume and had blotches of what appeared to be make-up covering the corners. While I kept my gaze down, she surveyed my house and I prayed that Alex possessed more sense than Lissy and stayed where I'd instructed him.

"Please, would you give this to him still sealed?" Christine asked.

"Very well," I said at last. The audacity of the two of them was more than I could stand.

"If you will excuse me, Vicomtess de Chagny," I said hurriedly. Another moment standing between her and Erik and I'd be sick to my stomach. "I must make lunch for my daughter."

"Thank you, Madame. I have one last request, if you would be so kind."

What more could she really ask of me? She'd humiliated me and Erik had proven no help. I nodded and gestured for her to speak swiftly.

She didn't appear phased by my rudeness. Her lips formed a sweet smile, her eyes blank as though she'd rehearsed for this moment. I had no doubt that she probably had.

"Tell him that I want to see my son."

-0-

I truly, sincerely, with every ounce of my body and soul, wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and violently shake him. I wanted to slap him across his swollen, unhealed face. I wanted to scream at him.

Hate didn't seem like a strong enough word for what I felt for him the moment I closed the front door. When I turned, I prepared to let him have it both with my fists and with words. He was damned lucky he'd slunk into the safety of his room.

I didn't have time to spend stomping about, however. Two children needed my attention, I had work to do in my home, and I had labor of my own with sewing and mending.

The two children were my greatest concern, especially since the Comtess expressed her interest in the child she'd abandoned. Her words gave me reason to pause, as the look of terror on her face had seemed genuine at the end. Perhaps she truly did want to see her son. As a mother myself, I wondered if she'd wanted to keep in contact with him over the years.

Or if she'd managed to twist my heart and bleed me for a drop of pity.

"You damned, bleeding little cow," I said under my breath. She'd known precisely what would happen once Erik saw her, and I had no doubt in my mind that she expected him to crawl out and beg for her to forgive him. At least—at the very, very least—he'd had the sense to stay at a distance.

I heard Erik mumble to himself and assumed he had returned to his bed but hadn't bothered to close the door. Bitterly I wondered if he cursed me for blocking his view of Christine, but then I remembered he'd approached her and had an eyeful. Wasn't the consequence enough for him, or did he thrive on punishment?

A tremendous crash almost sent my soul to Heaven and my dead body to the floor. Erik cursed loudly, and I ran out of the foyer to find him standing in the hall. Teeth gritted, I grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his face.

"You damned idiot," I seethed. "You damned, damned idiot."

He stared at me in complete horror as though he had no idea what incited my anger.

"Look me in the eye and tell me honestly: Have you prevented her from knowing her own son?"

He continued to stare at me like a scolded dog, the expression on his face unrecognizable. I was fairly certain he hadn't heard me.

"Erik, have you kept this woman from seeing her own son?" I demanded.

"No, I haven't." His voice sounded distant, as though perhaps he hadn't quite grasped the situation. I knew without a doubt that he feared for his son, that the mother of his child would take her abandoned infant back now, now that he was a handsome, intelligent young man—a boy whom she could harm much worse than she could back then.

"Erik—"

His lips quivered with the onset of panic. "Alex is upstairs." He spoke quietly, but with unmistakable frustration. "What she said to me, I don't want him to hear. He doesn't need to…he doesn't need to hurt that much, to suffer her lies, her stories…she'll only hurt him if she takes him from me."

That much was sincere, though I couldn't help but wonder if he had greater concern for himself than for Alex. With a sigh, I brushed a strand of hair from my face and decided not to attack him. His legs visibly shook, and I imagined the deep bruises beneath his pajama pants. I'd suspected the bruises went all the way to the bone, which had to hurt something awful.

"Well, she has a letter for you. Come, get yourself back into bed. I'll check on the children and fix them both lunch. When I return—"

"You want to read the letter."

I stiffened and crossed my arms. Of course I wanted to read her letter and know precisely what she intended to do. In his unhealthy state, I feared what her letter would do to Erik. The bullheaded fool would naturally excite himself over her words and most likely end up at her hotel again, ranting and raving with her note in hand.

"No," I answered flatly. "I don't want to read her letter because quite frankly, I don't find her interesting enough to care about what she says. However, I want the truth, Erik. I want to know exactly what I have gotten myself into." Once I looked away and convinced myself that this was true, I turned back toward him and stepped closer.

He inhaled sharply as though my presence had aroused him.

"He's not safe here," I whispered. I leaned back and glanced around the corner, afraid Lissy would steal her way down the stairs and find me up against Erik's chest. She'd never seen us so close together, though she knew we were friendly, but in the way she was friendly with Alex, I'm sure.

"Wherever I am, he's safe," he murmured, his eyes glazed with the slightest hint of desire.

With Christine freshly off my doorstep, the last thought on my mind was climbing into bed with him. I ignored his careful movements and stepped away from him, hoping to show him that this was not the time or the place.

"That's precisely what worries me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"She knows he's here because you're here. Her husband will know he is here and then what will happen? What will they do?"

"Not a damned thing," he answered. "He won't be able to do a damned thing! I'm here with Alex and that's enough. If he dares go near him I'll…I'll…"

That was it. I'd had enough of him. "Erik Kire, damn you! You are driving me mad!" I poked him in the chest with my index finger. "Why couldn't you listen just this once? Why couldn't you stay inside the guest room? She wouldn't know you are here if you had just once done as I asked you. Have you learned nothing at all? How can you be so selfish, Erik? How is it even possible?"

"They already knew he was here," he answered, his voice distant, his visage showing signs of distraction and thought.

"Well, now they know for certain because they've seen you here." I poked him in the chest to emphasize my point.

He nodded grimly. "She knew well before she saw me, otherwise I doubt she would have come here."

So he didn't believe she came looking for him. He assumed it was all about Alexandre, the unfortunate pawn in their sick game of desire and refusal.

"But it's worse now that you've seen her and she's seen you, isn't it?" I asked. He didn't reply. He was breathing heavy and staring down the hall. "Imagine what this will do to your son."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't meet my gaze. His refusal only fueled my anger. I wanted his complete attention, especially now that Madame de Chagny was gone.

"For a ghost, you aren't very clever in moving about and going unseen," I snapped. He leaned back, though I couldn't tell if he wanted to be further away from me or if his strength waned. "If you had wanted…"

He looked at me quickly, his face twisted, emotion churning behind his eyes. I paused, gave him one last time to explain himself, but he didn't. My skin prickled with deception, and I frowned at him.

"No, you are clever. You wanted her to see you…and you wanted to see her as well, one last time for old time's sake. One last time, one last damned moment, Erik, how dare you do this? How could you do this now? How could you?"


	33. Fear of Love

Julia33

My throat tightened as I stared at him, unable to comprehend his lack of self-control. He kept his gaze lowered, his long, dark eyelashes shielding his shame. He ought to be ashamed, I thought to myself. He ought to feel an ounce of the embarrassment I feel standing here with him, with this traitor.

"That wasn't why I was out in the hallway," he mumbled as though I'd fall for another of his lies.

"Of course not," I snapped. "Why on earth would you want her to see you again? Certainly you didn't do it to win her back and certainly you had no intention of making a fool of yourself in front of her yet again. Then what? My God, she's pretty but not pretty enough to waste ten years."

"It's been nine years," he said quickly.

"Even worse!"

"How can that be worse? It's a year less than what you just said."

"Because you probably know to the day how long it's been since you were this close to her." I swallowed to keep from crying or screaming at him. I wondered if he looked at her and thought of the night Alex had been conceived, if he looked at her and wanted her to tend him even now. But most of all I wondered if he replaced me in his thoughts. "You…you're hopeless. You are utterly hopeless, Erik."

"I didn't walk out here to see her!"

"Of course not."

"The only thing I could think of when I saw her was how much I despised her for everything!" he shouted. "You have no idea how I felt for her. How I still feel for her. How I hate her for everything."

"You don't hate her for everything," I replied.

He started to protest but couldn't bring himself to argue. We both knew he would at least think fondly of her when it came to Alex, whom he loved dearly even if he didn't show it.

"I don't want anything to do with her," he snarled. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Keep your voice down and don't you dare lie to me. You walked into this hallway to see her face and nothing more. Don't you dare look me in the eye and tell me anything so bold. You are incapable of hating her!"

"I do hate her. I hate her almost as much as I hate myself for ever looking at her in the first place." He shook as he spoke, though I didn't know if it was from anger or his passion for his former lover.

I grunted as though I weren't the least bit interested in what he had to say. "Then why did you have to come running out here, holding your hand over your face and tossing on that ridiculous thing?" I pointed at his lop-sided hairpiece, which looked as though a giant, hairy spider had perched on his head.

His eyes turned sharp, his mouth twisted. "Quit insulting me! I'm tired of you, of all people, mocking my appearance!"

He swallowed hard and I imagined that the pain scraped the back of his throat and made his words raw and almost intolerable. His sensitivity toward his appearance made me all the more sensitive to him. It had never bothered me to think of him as faulted or imperfect. I certainly had many of my own shortcomings, though they were not obvious to the rest of the world. Having known him for years, I'd grown to appreciate him and every asinine quality that eventually seemed endearing.

"I would never mock your appearance," I told him quietly.

"You just did," he said.

"I didn't mean to insult you. Why do you think I've kept the mask away from you? If I didn't want to look at you, I would have torn holes in your pillow case and told you to cover your face."

He shuddered, and for a moment I thought he'd break down and weep in my arms. I could imagine nothing more that I wanted than to feel him again. Even angered, I still wanted to touch him, especially now when I imagined he thought I'd never come near him again.

"He could have broken down your door!" Erik shouted suddenly.

I jumped, startled by his outburst. "Have you gone mad? What on earth are you talking about? What does this have to do with anything I just said?"

"I'm telling you why I came out into the hallway! The vicomte, the boy, her husband, the man who nearly beat me to death, Julia, damn it! Who do you think?" he shouted. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pressed me to him with such force that I gasped and lost my breath. "If he was here, if he wanted to enter your house he could have. That's why I came out. To protect you from him. You said yourself that you feared he would come in here."

Only briefly did I try to free myself before I realized the more I struggled the closer he held me. His fingers caressed my upper arms, and he stepped impossibly closer until I could feel everything from his thighs to his chest against me. The cuts and bruises to his face looked worse than ever. The stitches across his forehead were swollen, probably painful to the touch, I thought. Why he still wore his hairpiece, I had no idea.

"I don't want him to hurt you," he said softly. I looked into his unguarded eyes and wondered if he'd wanted to say that he wouldn't hurt me.

"I am not the one in danger."

"Do you think that, honestly?" He released me and I took a step back.

"I don't know what to think."

"He bruised her wrist."

I snorted, annoyed with him. "Why would you even care what happens to her?"

"Because I'm a damned fool and I still care for her!" He forced himself to take a deep breath. "Until the day I die, I will probably still care for her! She could threaten to slit my throat and I wouldn't think ill of her. You don't understand, Julia, how long she has been on my mind. Nearly twenty years of my life. I can't just forget her. I can't."

No, I thought, but you could forget me.

"You can't or you don't want to?" I challenged.

He didn't answer me aloud, but he gave me a pointed look. If I'd never heard her name again I wouldn't have been upset in the least.

"Erik, you never explained to me what good it would do for you to stand out in the hallway and have him see you. If he was here, which I doubt he was, what would you do? Antagonize him and finally have him kill you? Was that what you wanted to have happen?"

"I would have fought him long enough for the three of you to escape. Then I would have killed him."

"Oh, Erik! You can barely stand!"

His eyes narrowed. "I don't have to stand in order to kill him," he grumbled.

I stared back at him, thinking we must have looked like two prize fighters standing toe to toe before a round, our hands balled into fists, both of us prepared for a fight. I thought of his words and how juvenile he was to assume he could still take up fisticuffs in his condition. His face still bore deep bruises and scratches, his neck remained scraped and tender. One blow to the belly and he'd be doubled over in pain. I feared even a slight shove would injure his ribs and possibly crack a bone.

But naturally Erik didn't care what happened to himself. I knew the terrain of his body, knew the scars across the middle of his back where he'd been flogged, the scar on his knee he described as receiving "from a cave", and the star-shaped wound on his chest where he'd reached for a piece of sheet music, forgot he still held a pen in hand, and stabbed himself accidentally.

This man who was no stranger to pain would fight for his son and for me and my daughter no matter what had happened. This pompous, asinine fool I loved would sacrifice himself just as he'd promised. For all of his past mistakes, for all of his misgivings and delusions, he was a good, loyal man— loyal to a fault.

He turned me into a hurricane of emotions, each one tossed and turned until I had no idea how I should feel about him. Unable to contain myself, I began to laugh.

His face went pale with horror as he didn't understand I wasn't laughing at him. Or perhaps I seemed raving mad to him, but I didn't care.

"Why are you laughing at me?" he demanded. "First my appearance and now…now this. Is this meant as punishment?"

"Did you hear yourself, Erik? You don't have to be able to stand to fight him." I covered my mouth with my hand. He looked simply livid. "Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Even for you, that's delusional."

For a man who never seemed aware of other people's feelings his were certainly hurt easily. He turned from me at once. "I want to lie down again."

Very gently, I touched his shoulder. "Your lunch will be ready within the hour. If you'd like, I'll draw you a bath once you've finished eating." I tapped him gently in order to gain his attention and handed him the letter from Christine, which belonged to him.

"Fine," he grumbled. "But tell Madeline I want to see her at once with the dog."

Christine, apparently, wasn't my only rival.

"No dogs, Erik, I told you that already." With two children and a grown man depending on me every hour of the day, I had no desire to mind after a dog as well. Judging by how Madame Giry pampered Erik, I had no doubt that she treated Bessie like a long-eared, sad-eyed princess.

"Only for a moment." He pleaded like a boy, but I shook my head, imagining him with his wounds bandaged and then covered in dog hair. He'd never allow that dog to sleep on the floor. She'd be tucked in beside him, drinking from his glass of water and eating scraps from his plate.

"You'll see her when you return," I said to him.

"Knowing Madeline and Meg, the creature is probably starving. I'm not returning home to bury some stupid animal."

"You told me before you were going to tie her up and leave her at the back of a restaurant," I commented as he limped toward the doorway.

"She's far too old now. No one would eat her. That goes for the dog as well as Madeline."

I rolled my eyes. "A lovely thought."

He braced himself against the wall and removed his hairpiece. His hair beneath it was slick with sweat, and I watched him shudder as he stood there. I wondered what he would look like if he actually smiled again. It had been a long time since I'd seen him happy, since he'd laughed at a story I told or smiled when he spoke of Alexandre.

It pained me to look at him and find myself unable to recall where the man I had known had gone. When exactly had he slipped through my fingers and why hadn't I noticed? What sort of person was I to love him so deeply and yet allow him to disappear? Perhaps if I had invited him into my bed four times a week rather than two. If I had made him supper and asked him to be more a part of my life, then I could have kept him to myself. His wandering was not his fault, but mine. I'd bored him, I decided. I'd lost track of our relationship and had settled for an arrangement.

I followed him into the guest room and watched him climb into bed. He moved slowly, his every step hindered by pain. I listened to him grunt, heard his breath become labored as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and eased back. There were tears in his eyes once he finished and lay flat with his hands tightly clenched on top of the covers. He still held onto the black hair he had worn.

While he stared at the ceiling and attempted to control his breathing, I tidied up his room and opened the window to allow the fresh air inside.

"What do you fear about love?" I asked suddenly. "You care for your son, you care for that dog, but you cannot say it aloud. Why is that?"

He stared at his hairpiece. His expression battled with his thoughts. While I stood and watched him, I noticed the anger and frustration, the sadness and resignation he felt inside.

At last he nodded. "They know that I love them. It doesn't matter if I say it aloud or not."

He was afraid, which I realized is how I felt inside as well. The only man I'd ever said "I love you" to had beaten me. It was easier not to say anything at all than to risk one's heart. But I would risk my heart for him, for this man who would risk his life for me.

"Would it matter to you if I said it aloud?"


	34. Worthless Gifts

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Julia 34

His eyes darkened, which I hadn't quite expected. I thought he would smile or take me in his arms. I thought my offer would make everything between us right, but it would never be easy between us. We much preferred to suffer.

I studied him and the way his expression changed beneath his swollen, bruised features. It was as though he had decided not to believe what I said. This man who believed he wasn't handsome, who lived within his room and never intruded into the lives of others—why should he have believed me? He couldn't say he loved anyone, why should anyone love him in return?

"Erik?"

His eyes turned glassy, pain evident in every unshed tear. It concerned me that he'd gone from yelling to silence. I didn't like it when he contemplated, when he crawled into the recess of his mind. I wanted to hear what he thought so he would allow me inside. He was far too successful at isolating himself.

"You don't have to say it," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "You were right."

I pursed my lips, unsure of what he meant. "Right about what?"

"Everything you said before…lust, obsession…I don't know love."

My eyes snapped shut. "Oh, Erik, I owe you an apology," I said quietly, curling my fingers around his. He jerked suddenly but didn't pull his hand away. I carefully cradled his hand in mine, doing my best to keep from putting pressure on his bruised fingers. "What I said then, what I said today…You are not beyond hope." He allowed me to lace my fingers through his, and he squeezed back.

"Then what am I?" he asked.

"You're not beyond me," I said. You're not beyond my love, foolish woman that I am, patient lover I've become.

"What am I, Julia," he said, biting off his words.

"You're not hopeless. I was wrong for saying that, and I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you or to ever make fun of you. Forgive me for what I've said, for my hateful and childish words."

"I've deserved it," he answered.

"No, you haven't. No one would ever deserve this. You're a good man, I know you are. You love your son, you even love that dog. I know you do. I care for you, Erik, I honestly do, but if you love Christine—"

"May I tell you something?" he asked suddenly. He turned his head away from me and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he watched me from the corner of his eye.

I nodded, despite my fear of what he would say.

"When she gifted me with herself," he began, his hesitation evident. "When she allowed me what I didn't deserve…"

"You flatter her far too much," I said under my breath, barely able to believe the pedestal he'd placed her upon. "She gave you a son, Erik. That was the only gift she gave you. Whores will lay with any man who has enough money. Do not think she was offering you more than a woman off the street."

I thought he'd be angry with me for degrading her, but he only nodded.

"She asked me to take her from behind," he whispered, his voice trembling. He took hold of my hand tighter, and swallowed. "So that she would not see my face when I…had her…for the first time. She didn't wish to take her pleasure and see who it was that…sullied her, is what she said. She wanted to close her eyes and imagine herself somewhere else, with someone different."

That evil, selfish little brat. If she'd stood outside my door in that moment I would have walloped her with such force that she would have sank into the street and never been seen again. Then I'd hit him for being such an ignorant man.

"I did as she asked because I loved her…and I wanted to make love to her. Both times she came to bed with me, I did as she asked, hoping she would stay with me forever just as I had asked of her. Over and over I told her that I loved her, that I would care for her like no one else could. I promised to protect her and give her whatever she wanted, no matter the price, no matter what I needed to give in return in order to see her happy. I would have lived on the moon or beneath the ocean if she'd asked it of me."

He paused and shook his head. I wondered if he realized that what he felt for her wasn't love, it was merely an obsession.

"Each time I told her that I loved her, she'd smiled wanly at me—no—not even at me, she looked in my direction, but said nothing. Then she left me—after the first time we had…been intimate."

"Why?" I asked.

"I never asked her why. For weeks she was gone. For weeks, I wanted her back. She slept in a different room, she didn't attend rehearsals for the latest opera…she avoided me."

And she'd left him unable to comprehend how she could allow him to sleep with her but wouldn't look at him afterward. The emotion belonged to him, the physical aspect was hers.

"The second time she came to me…the second time…we…she allowed me to have her, I even wore a scarf over my head so that if the mask fell off and she happened to turn and look over her shoulder..."

"Oh, Erik," I whispered, imagining the shame he'd felt, the humiliation involved in what he thought of as a relationship with her.

"Everything I did, I did for her and only her. Every day that I woke, it was to hear her voice, to train her, to strengthen her for the stage. She knew I loved her—"

"It wasn't love," I blurted out. Love involved more than sex. Love was looking someone in the eye when they spoke to you, love was the moments in between intimacy, the shared smiles and laughter. Love was what we'd tasted but never quite drank, though I'd always felt more for Erik than the need to straddle him. Love was talking, sharing, knowing one another. We were being reintroduced even though physically we'd never been apart. Emotionally it was as though we'd never truly existed, and I refused to be another Christine. He didn't deserve to be completely humiliated and left wanting. No one did.

He nodded and continued, his voice low. "She knew I wanted her to succeed, she knew that I wanted her with me, that I would have done anything for her. She knew everything."

I shook my head. She didn't know a damned thing.

"She knew that she took everything from me that night, that first night. I thought I'd taken from her, but I don't think I did, did I?" He opened his eyes and stared at the letter she'd delivered.

I shook my head again. If I had been a cat, my claws would have sank into the quilt. "Nothing she would have saved for her husband."

He looked sharply at me, but didn't ask me to take back my words or grow angry for what I'd said. "And now she wants the only thing I have left."

I shifted and straightened my skirt, noticing how rigid he'd become. Only Alex mattered more than his humiliation.

His words reminded me that I had more people in the house to attend to, not only him. "The children—"

He looked up at me, and for the first time, his features softened. "Feed them."

I nodded and rose from the bed, worried sick about leaving him alone to think of what had happened between him and Christine. "I'll return as quickly as I can. I should probably clean the stitches and check on your bruises. The bathwater—"

He reached for me and held me by the wrist before I could finish speaking. "Why didn't you ever face away from me?" he asked, averting his eyes. His cheeks had flushed with humiliation. "When I first…when you allowed me to…"

"I wanted you as much as you wanted me," I told him.

Gently I touched his chin, ran the back of my fingers over his damaged lips, the ones I had never kissed. A man of his age should have smiled more often, the father of a loving, handsome boy should have found more joy in his life than Erik had. He should have been able to believe me when I said I wanted him.

"Why?" he asked. "Why would you ever—"

Ours eyes met, and I knew he'd finally let down his guard. He was ready at last to hear what I'd wanted to say to him for so long—what I'd wanted him to say to me for years. Beaten, ashamed…with nowhere else to turn to, he faced me.

"Because I love you," I answered.


	35. Fear and Desire

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Julia35

When I had finally said the words I knew he'd longed to hear, he made no reply. My hope of him finally opening up and telling me that he loved me as we kissed and held each other was swiftly discarded. Perhaps I had misjudged him and he wasn't at all ready to hear me profess love—just as I had not been prepared when he'd blurted out that he'd always loved me.

"Why?" he asked, his tone accusing.

My eyes widened in disbelief. He may as well have growled at me. I exhaled and collapsed into the bedside chair, knowing I should have expected him to fight me even with this.

"Oh, Erik," I started, pulling my braid over my shoulder. I untied the ribbon at its end and rebraided my tangled hair. "I should have known you would ask such a thing."

He made no reply. The look on his face spoke of shame and regret, though I didn't know if it had to do with me or with Christine. No matter what, I was determined to make him believe me, to show him the difference between lust, love, and using someone. He'd lusted for Christine, and she had used him to teach her. From all I had known of him—which wasn't as much as I would have liked—I knew he'd gone from his time with her directly to the house where he now lived. There was no woman in between. What happened before Christine Daae, I had no idea, but I assumed that there had been no one else. He would have mentioned another woman, ostentatious man that he was.

I sat back and glanced at the painting propped up against the wall. It was a family portrait I'd kept to make my brother and my husband's family believe that I mourned Louis' death when in reality I had felt a sense of relief—once I managed to get over the initial shock of his unexpected death.

At the end, when I'd discovered how he'd mistreated Lissy, I'd wanted nothing to do with him. I no longer fought him in the middle of the night when he rolled me onto my back and grunted for me to lie still. It was better if he sought me, not Lissy, better if I remained a corpse beneath him than have Lissy fight her own father to keep him from hurting her.

I hated that damned portrait, hated the lie it displayed in my home.

"When my grandfather first brought me to meet Louis, I was beside myself with joy," I said, feeling Erik's gaze on me. "I ran to every house on the street, every friend I had, and squealed out to them how lucky I was to have such a handsome fiancé." I shook my head, unable to believe what a fool I'd been. "I thought there was no way I could have been more fortunate than finding Louis."

"I don't want to hear about him," Erik said under his breath.

"I know, but I want you to hear about him."

"Why?"

"Two months before we were married I discovered that I was pregnant. He accused me of sleeping with another man because he himself had slept with several girls and not one of them had conceived a child. He threatened not to marry me. He threatened to tell my grandfather, my father, all of my brothers that I was nothing but a worthless little whore out to steal his money and take his good name. He said I would rape him of his dignity."

His eyes hardened. "No more. Julia, I told you—"

"But I told him that if he did that no one would believe him. My mother, my grandmother, my sisters wouldn't believe a word of it." I stared at my folded hands. "So he stayed quiet, though I don't know why because it wasn't much of a threat."

Erik's breathing had turned harsh, angry. I wondered what he wanted to do. He'd already killed the man.

"We married as planned, and on our wedding night he left without ever touching me. He told me I was already used up and he went out for the night. We didn't consummate our marriage for a month. He had other women to satisfy him, other women he had slept with before he had ever agreed to marry me. Eventually I found out that there were two other women who had daughters of his, one in Florence, one here in Paris."

It made me sick to my stomach to think of him, even years after he was dead. I could tell that Erik was quite upset as well, and I knew that if it had been possible to dig someone up and kill them again, he would have murdered Louis in a much more horrific fashion.

I laid my hand over his and offered a smile to calm him before he became more riled. "And then I saw you one night in the window when Louis had gone out for the night, and I heard you sing and play the violin. Lissy was asleep in my arms because…because she didn't like being alone in the dark. She smiled in her sleep when she heard you playing."

He looked away, obviously embarrassed by the compliment.

"It was truly beautiful, Erik. What you could do…I felt something… different. I don't know how to explain it."

He glanced at me, shy and guarded, which reminded me of how we'd first met. He'd never made eye contact with me unless he got carried away with what he was saying and forgot himself. Seeing a bit of his old self return made me smile.

"You concentrated so much on your music that you didn't notice me. I turned down the lamp and just sat for hours, listening with my eyes closed. When Louis finally came home he was the ugliest man I had ever seen. I hated him for leaving me every night, for how he…ignored Lisette, for everything. I hated him for everything."

He stared at me but didn't say a word.

"And I told him. I slapped him across the face and I told him that I hated him and he was nothing to me, that he was lower than garbage. He beat me that night and he forced me into bed with him. Then he went to my grandfather the next morning and told him that their grandchild, that their beautiful granddaughter, belonged to another man, that I had confessed to him the night before." I blinked and realized I had started to cry. "Do you know what my grandfather said to him?"

He stared at my hands, which I had started to wring, and shook his head.

"He said he should teach me a lesson and keep it from ever happening again. They believed him and they never spoke to me again. He could do anything with me that he wanted and he knew it. He knew no one would protest him and that I wasn't strong enough to fight him."

His lips parted in horror. "Do you…say you love me because I strangled him?"

"That isn't a reason to love someone, Erik, that's gratitude for ending a nightmare."

"Then why?" he demanded.

"How can you possibly ask such a question?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't answer me. "Because you've been good to me all these years. You've only come to me when I've asked for your company. Not once have you raised your hand at me, not even when I deserved it."

"You would never deserve anyone hurting you. You and Lisette both."

I paused and stared at him, wondering if he could have possibly known what Louis did to her. Refusing to consider it, I sighed and gently touched his hand. "There are things you do that are maddening, absolutely blood-boiling sometimes, but you're…" I smiled to myself and stroked his thumb. He appeared absolutely captivated. "Do you remember when you brought me chocolates?"

His eyes widened. He had no idea what I was talking about, not in the least.

"Two years ago you brought me candy a week after St. Valentine's Day. You had opened it, but you still brought it over," I said with a laugh, remembering how he'd offered it to me as though he'd wanted nothing to do with it. He'd given it to me to get it out of his house. If that wasn't love, then I didn't know the meaning of the word.

"You're a gentleman, Erik, even without intending to be one. You're gruff, you're eccentric, but you're a good man." I paused to look him in the eye and make sure he heard me. "Everything that I wanted in Louis, everything that he wasn't, you've been to me."

"No, I haven't been good to you," he mumbled. I watched him wince as he sat upright and released my hand. "If I had been good to you…I wouldn't be here, not like this, not under these circumstances."

I smiled at him for his honesty, which I hadn't seen enough of in recent weeks. "God knows why, but even though you have made me so mad I thought I would have kittens, I've…I suppose I have enjoyed you being here. It reminds me of my parents' marriage and how my father would make my mother want to throw things at him."

He didn't find my words amusing. I could tell he didn't like the idea of a woman throwing objects at her husband.

"Though I would have rather taken you in for a different reason than this, Erik, I like not being here alone."

He did nothing more than nod in agreement. We sat for a moment in silence, him staring past me in thought, me feeling more exhausted by the moment. When the clock chimed two in the afternoon, I knew it was time for me to leave him alone. He needed his rest, and I needed a good cry.

"Lisette and Alex are probably starved to death by now. Erik, I must—"

He pulled me down onto the bed beside him, and touched my face as though he couldn't bear to keep away from me. All the while he stared at my lips, his thumb smoothing along my skin until he brushed it against my mouth. The way in which he lightly caressed me brought another tear to my eye, then another.

Louis had never been tender, not one day in his life. I didn't want to think of him, but I couldn't help thinking that without Erik in my life I never would have experienced such beautiful, caring touches.

"I do love you," I told him. With tears clouding my eyes, I kissed his thumb. "I love you very much. I loved you for longer than you've ever known, and I think I'll always be deeply in love with you."

He blinked rapidly and nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing to keep away his own emotion. I slid gingerly into his grasp and heard him tell me not to worry about the bruises because I couldn't hurt him. "Of all the people in the world," he said to me, "you won't hurt me."

"No, I won't," I promised him as I curled up on the bed and allowed him to hold me, protect me from the world if only for a moment.

"Julia," he whispered in my ear. I didn't reply. I didn't want to speak or move, merely lay there in his arms. "I've loved you as well, for longer than I ever allowed myself to believe."

"Why?" I asked. "Why wouldn't you believe?"

"Because I was afraid to have what I wanted."

I was too tired to question or argue. With the rest of my strength, I nodded and closed my eyes, hoping that when I woke, I would still be what he wanted—and what I desired would still be in my arms.


	36. In His Arms

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**Julia36**

For the first time since I'd met Erik, he became the anchor I needed in order to survive. For once he didn't rely on me to steady him. He'd become strong enough, confident enough in himself and in our love that he could offer me what I'd sought from him all these years—a real lover emotionally, not just physically.

He whispered in my ear that he didn't want me to cry, but he made no attempt to shush me. Instead he kissed my temple and the tears on my cheeks and rocked me slowly as though I were a child. His arms protected me, his heartbeat comforted me, and the familiar voice I had fallen in love with allowed me to break down.

Emotion overcame me, drowned me in a way I hadn't expected. I cried for myself and for Erik, for everything I'd wanted and still wanted. As he held me, I thought of what had happened to him in that alley and how close I'd come to losing him.

"I'll hurt you," I squeaked as I struggled to sit up.

"Never," he assured me. "Stay."

"I have housework, I have my daughter and your son, I have—"

"Stay," he said again.

I couldn't argue with him, so I nestled against him and closed my eyes. The world started to fade, yet I managed to tell him that I found his arms to be the most comfortable place in the world.

"I want to fall asleep with you," he said when he apparently thought I'd fallen asleep. "I've always wanted to know what it would feel like to wake up warmed by your body and know I could simply stay by you without fear of being caught."

I didn't know why he feared being caught. I certainly didn't care and had made no attempt to hide him. For goodness sake, I lit a beacon in my window to draw him to me each night I had wanted him to visit.

"And now I will know because of my mistakes. Ironic, isn't it? My foolishness has earned me this place beside you. I wish it were different, Julia, I wish I had stayed at your house and never returned to my own."

More tears spilled down my cheeks. I fell asleep listening to him breathe, savoring the warmth of his body and his masculine scent. I fell asleep knowing he'd be there when I woke because he didn't have a choice. He would be mine because he didn't have the strength to return home. And perhaps, I reminded myself, because he loved me and at last he was ready to stay.

It felt as though he'd returned to me from a long absence, a lover I hadn't seen in many years. Physically he was the same man I'd been with all of these years, but that was the only similarity. It thrilled me to think we would once again sit and talk for hours about music, the articles in the newspaper, our children, our homes, our lives together. As much as I loved him, I couldn't quite imagine our lives intertwining any more than they had—which is to say, I couldn't fathom living in the same home with him for more than week. No matter how close he was now, I feared he'd become distant again later. I had no desire to marry a stranger all over again and suffer as I had in the past. If I were to marry, it would be because I wanted a man in my life, not because it was expected.

We slept soundly in each other's arms, warm and content in the quiet guest room. Lissy and Alexandre must have kept themselves occupied, which I credited to Alex because he was always the one secretly in charge even when he was patient enough to allow Lisette to order him around. If he didn't agree, she had no power, and he seemed to enjoy amusing her.

When we did wake, it was dark and I feared I'd starved the children. My own belly was sick with hunger, and I sat up with a start.

"No, don't," Erik blurted out, his hands grasping me firmly before he fully woke and looked at me as though he were surprised. "What are you doing?"

"Starting supper, finishing laundry, making sure the children haven't killed one another," I said as I began to fix my hair.

"Lay still a moment," he said as he pulled me back into his arms. "A minute more."

How could I resist a minute more? I had no doubt that a minute would turn into five, which would lead to ten and then suddenly I'd be asleep again.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just gave you half a dozen reasons, Erik."

He looked at me, his pale eyes filled with sadness. It didn't matter what I needed to clean, cook, or tend to during the day. He wanted me here and that was all that mattered—at least to Erik.

"I suppose five more minutes won't hurt," I said. He exhaled hard, as though I'd knocked the air from his lungs.

"Not at all," he murmured.

We fell asleep again, my face beside his. The warmth of him lulled me into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. It had been a long time since I'd rested comfortably. Just when I thought I had forgotten Louis, I'd dream about him. The wind would rattle the windows and I'd think it was him trying to enter the house. Nothing frightened me more than imagining the last few years as merely a dream. I always wondered what would happen if I woke beside Erik. Perhaps then I would know for certain that Louis wouldn't return and hurt us.

"What time is it?" I eventually murmured.

"Almost six," Erik drowsily answered.

I bolted upright and cursed under my breath. Within seconds I had managed to smooth my skirts, fearing Lisette would see me and ask why I appeared so rumpled.

"Stay out of trouble," I said to Erik, who appeared amused by my actions. "No running about, wandering the house, or anything of the sort."

"Am I a prisoner now?" he grumbled.

"You're a patient," I answered.

He didn't look amused. "Don't you have any more books?"

"I told you I sold them all," I answered. "Or most of them. I'll dig through the closet later and find something."

I expected the moment I shut the door he'd be out of bed and rummaging around like a pig in search of truffles.

"Fine," he replied, clearly unhappy with my decision to leave him alone.

"Thank you," I said warmly, feigning complete trust in him.

The hall smelled of fresh bread and meat. I found Lisette at the bottom of the stairs, apparently searching for me.

"There you are," she said. "We've been looking for you."

Alex slid into place beside her and smiled. "Where have you been?"

"With your father," I answered.

"You look as though you just woke," Lissy said. "Did you fall asleep, mummy?"

There was no use in lying to her as I knew one or both of them would ask why I looked like I just woke up if I hadn't been asleep.

"I did, very briefly. Now both of you wash up for lunch…or supper, I suppose."

Lissy frowned. "You must sit down before you collapse," she said, our roles reversed momentarily. She took me by the arm and ushered me into the dining room, explaining that she and Alex had taken the initiative to make supper. Undoubtedly they'd had a bit of help from Meg, as I found a note tucked under the baking pan that it should be washed at once to keep the food from sticking.

"May I ask my father to join us?" Alex asked.

"He's still asleep. Wait until after supper and then you may see him, Alex."

He didn't appear satisfied with my words but he nodded politely and walked with us into the dining room. Together we sat, said grace, and began to enjoy the meal. While Lissy went on chattering about how she wanted to ask her uncle Anthony for some blue candy because it was her favorite color, I caught Alex staring at the empty seat beside me.

"He's perfectly fine," I told him.

Alex looked up suddenly and offered a humorless smile. "I know."

"He'll be happy to see you again, I'm certain."

Alex didn't reply immediately. He played with his food and stared at his glass of water. "If he's feeling up to company," he mumbled.

"You're family, not company," I corrected.

"Does he want to see me?" he asked. "Or is that why I'm not allowed to see him?"

"He's healing, Alex. It has nothing to do with you. Your father needs all the rest he can get."

"Then why do you get to see him?" Lissy asked.

"Because I'm a nurse." I issued her a sharp glance to tell her to stay quiet.

"He won't die now, will he?" Alex asked.

"No, I think he'll be just fine now."

Unless your mother returns, I wanted to say. Then none of us will be fine.


	37. The Note

Julia37

Before I reached the guest room, I heard Erik muttering to himself. I winced each time he cursed, as it was rare that he used crude language in my company. Most of the time his anger or disapproval was voiced in a grunt or an inaudible grumble—more often, however, he showed displeasure by waving his arms about.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to expect the worst, which didn't come easy considering our pleasant nap. His scent lingered on my hair and skin, the masculine smell of a man who could quicken my heart rate with only his voice.

"Madame Giry wishes to see you later on this evening," I said as I entered. He didn't lift his head or acknowledge my presence. He had the letter in hand, which I knew was the one Madame de Chagny had sent to him. "Madame Lowry paid a visit during lunch and brought something from her mother."

I paused, expecting his inquisitive nature to make him lift his head and ask what she'd brought. When he didn't, I grew frustrated with him. It was only a letter, but Christine had ensnared him once again.

"Cookies," I said. "For the children."

"Fine." He yawned as though I bored him.

I extended my arm to him as I entered, which made him lift his head and look at me. His eyes widened as he noticed the mask in my hand, and I could see in his gaze that he attempted to go back and remember what I had just said to him a moment earlier.

Light reflected from the mirror in my hand onto the walls, and he stared at it as though it was the most hideous object he'd ever seen. Suddenly I became quite embarrassed for having returned it to him.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want this or not when Madame Giry pays you a visit later." Awkwardly I fumbled with his lunch tray and left the mirror and mask beside him. I balanced the mirror on top of his hairpiece and felt as though I should have said something more. "The room is quite dark, but perhaps it isn't—"

"Thank you," he said softly before I finished. He looked at me, his face still swollen and bruised. He didn't say a word, but I knew he wouldn't don the mask or his hairpiece if she came to visit him. I couldn't decide if it was a step forward or if he'd resigned himself to being helpless.

"She has seen my true appearance. If the dimmed lights suit her, she may enter." He hesitated noticeably, which made me aware of his discomfort. She thought of him as a son, yet he quite obviously didn't want her to ever see him unmasked. "Warn her first," he added hastily.

I closed my eyes, appalled by his recommendation that I warn her before she entered. In all the years I had known Madame Giry and Madame Lowry not once had either of them shown any hint of repulsion.

"Erik," I started. "Alex—"

He took a deep breath and turned his face way. It shocked me that he would not meet my eye when I mentioned his son. I had expected him to be thrilled to hear that the child he adored wished to visit him, but I wasn't sure I should finish. Perhaps Alex was nothing more than a reminder of Christine and the life Erik had wanted.

He crumpled the note in his hand. "What about Alex?"

My eyes grew wide, though I doubted he could see them. He'd crumpled the note from Christine, which I hadn't expected. I thought he'd tuck it into his shirt pocket in order to keep it close to his heart, but he hadn't. For the first time I had faith that he could overcome his feelings for her. He could place her into his past and step forward…with me, perhaps.

"Alex has been asking me for the last four hours if he may see you."

He gave a weary sigh, and I saw his Adam's apple bob. "Once Madeline returns home he may visit for a while—for the night if he wants."

It was what Erik wanted, but I didn't comment. Instead I turned up the lamp and smoothed the wrinkles out of the linen covers, purposely touching his leg. He watched me, his eyes slightly widening as my palm passed over his knee. I heard him inhale sharply, almost appreciatively of the attention I gave him, which made me smile wickedly.

"Oh, Erik," I said. "I forgot all about the bath I promised you. With the house, the children—"

"Sit down," he said, sounding aggravated. "For God's sake, quit running around."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You look absolutely hideous."

My eyebrows shot up.

"Tired, I mean. You look tired." He stared up at me with genuine concern in his eyes. His expression left me breathless as I still found it difficult to believe that with Christine's note in hand he could concern himself with me.

I wanted him to care about me as much as I cared for him, though I knew it would take time for me to trust him again. He'd become a stranger to me in so many ways that I couldn't allow myself to overlook the past few months and hope to start where we'd left off. That place was gone. No matter what I wanted from him, I had to take it slow and relearn him. He needed time to do the same.

"Thank you," I replied quietly. "I would like to sit for a while."

He reached up to scratch his head and winced as his fingers touched his forehead.

"You shouldn't touch that at all. You're hands aren't clean and the swelling hasn't gone down yet. I'll bring you a compress."

"Don't leave," he blurted out. Panic flickered in his eyes, and he reached for my hand and squeezed it.

"I won't," I promised. "I'll sit for a while, but if Madame Giry arrives—"

He blew a raspberry. "If you sit here long enough she'll clean the whole house for you."

"Erik, it's rude."

"Please, just sit with me. Just for a moment." He pulled his hand away and scratched at his head again, his teeth gritted in agony.

With a nod, I sat down beside him and folded my hands in my lap while he fidgeted a moment with the note and envelope. After a while, he sighed and handed me the letter—or rather shoved it into my grasp.

I squinted at it, unsure of what to say or do. My first impulse was to toss it into the fire and be rid of it. This was his intimate business, and as much as I wanted to see what she'd said to Erik, it felt intrusive. I knew that no matter what I would never have given Erik a letter from Louis. My past was private and I wanted it respected.

"Are you absolutely certain you want me to read this?" I asked.

He stared at my hands. "Yes, of course I'm sure."

Reluctantly I opened the letter and read her note, surprised that it didn't include false flattery. What I read angered me, as she questioned Alex's paternity and claimed she needed to know who his father was when to me it was plain to see who he belonged to. He was Erik's son in the way he acted and reacted. Alex had belonged to Erik since he was months old, which made him exclusively the son of the man who'd raised him.

Despite being a mother, I had no sympathy toward Christine. As much as I looked for a reason to sympathize with her, I found merely lies. She knew damned well that Alex was Erik's son, not her husband's. I suspected she hadn't bee truthful with the Vicomte either.

It was too much, and I handed it back to him. Teeth gritted, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it onto the desk.

"Erik—"

"Listen to me," he said. "Please, no questions. Just listen to me." He looked away, and I wondered if he'd lied to her as well.

"I realize what a fool I've been. The kiss, the ring, all of it was for naught. She had acted out a beautiful moment, one of which had been the pinnacle of my life for so long." He paused, briefly met my eye, and frowned. "She had a pretty little stage of smoke and mirrors and a master who turned into a puppet once something better appeared before her eyes."

His words both confused and alarmed me. I touched his hand, and he looked at me. "Erik, I don't understand."

"She was only a chorus girl when I first saw her, but I changed her. I kept her disciplined, and I made her work on her voice. I made an orphan into a princess."

He'd made a little brat into a princess, I wanted to say. Because I didn't want him to stop speaking, I nodded and adjusted myself on the bed beside him, assuming I'd be listening to him for quite some time.

"Everything was my doing. My fixation with Christine allowed her the upper hand, which I hadn't even realized. There was nothing I wouldn't do to see her happy, to make her smile and she knew it. Physically, I could do nothing for her. She tempted me, there was no doubt, and I persisted to win her, but nothing ever came of it."

I nodded, barely able to believe that he admitted fault. "You were a gentleman," I said for lack of anything else.

"Not for lack of trying to be a louse. After a while, I tired of coaxing her into the bed chamber and having nothing come of it." He took a breath, and I imagined him some fifteen years ago. What would Erik as a thirty-year-old man been like, I wondered? What would have happened if I'd met him then?

"I settled on satisfying her emotionally," he continued. "By her own free will she came to me again and again, even when she had engaged herself to the boy. I taught her how to make her way down into the opera house. I gave her everything. I shared everything with her gladly."

I looked away from him, and for a moment I didn't hear his voice. He'd shared everything with her. The words lingered longer than they should have, but I allowed myself a moment of jealousy. Only now had he begun to share himself with me, truly share himself. Before this he'd only allowed me to skim across the surface.

"…Madeline was instructed to keep two thousand francs each month from my salary so that gifts could be purchased for Christine."

I blinked as money was mentioned. "Two thousand francs? How much did you receive?"

"Twenty thousand."

"For what?"

He shrugged, giving me a curious expression. "For leaving them be."

I stared at him a moment longer, completely confused by the turn in the conversation. "This, we will discuss later. With all of that money you could have bought her France."

He smirked, which reminded me of the old Erik. "Don't think it didn't cross my mind. I spared nothing for her. I thought she was happy to visit me. She would sit and listen to me play; she would have her music lessons, play with her gifts, tell me how much she adored the trinkets and then be gone for weeks."

"You spoiled her."

"I thought I had earned her company. As I returned her to her room, I would beg her to tell me why she wouldn't stay a little longer. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want companionship but the only moments I found joy were when she sat by the organ and sang, or when she fell asleep in the bed I respectfully left to her—and I did leave her alone. She gave me enough attention, just enough hope that she would love me and that she would stay with me for a lifetime."

My God, he knew precisely how to torment me. I looked away from him, wondering how long he could possibly speak about the woman he claimed he didn't still love. Most likely he'd talk as long as I listened, and then perhaps he'd forget that I was there.


	38. Expect Nothing in Return

Julia38

It saddened me to think he wanted—or perhaps assumed he deserved—nothing more in life than doting on a woman who gave him only fleeting thoughts. Now that I had met her, I wasn't even certain I could say she had ever considered him.

He mumbled as he spoke, his eyes cast down, sorrow dripping from his words. He spoke of how Christine had loved and hated him, invited him in and pushed him away. Forgiveness on her part, he said, groveling for his.

There were few times he had brought me gifts, though I had never dragged him so ruthlessly by his heart. I had been the one to seek him out, to begin our relationship, as unconventional as it had been. I wondered if he found satisfaction in the one being praised and doted on rather than ridiculed and torn apart. For everything I knew of him, it seemed he had never been the one to be loved, the one wanted or needed—aside from what gifts he could offer.

"You made a nice benefactor," I commented.

He didn't seem surprised or angered by my words. Perhaps he had finally been given a different angle in which to see how the past had unraveled. He spoke of how she had abruptly refused to see him and a flash of anger gave his deep voice a razor sharp edge.

"She left me once the lessons no longer improved her voice," he admitted. His face darkened. "And once she knew for sure about Alex."

He had poured the very essence of himself into his love for her, though in truth I wondered if he did love her. He spoke of destruction, of days without sleeping and eating and how he had lost his ability to function.

Then he had been a different man, one seeking company over solitude. The Erik I had loved was never desperate for my company. He came to me as requested by candlelight and slipped easily through the kitchen, leaving his music for a few hours, then retreating back to his home. Though there were times when I caught him watching me through the window, I had always felt it was out of affection and curiosity, never obsession.

There was so much I wanted to ask him, but he spoke softly, so honestly that I couldn't interrupt him. I came to understand he was not speaking only to me, but to himself. In his eyes I saw remorse and horror and knew his recollection of the past made him keenly aware of who he had been. I could tell he wanted nothing to do with the man he had been, and nor did I. Too much of the past had risen up like smoke, gathered between us with as much substance as choking fumes.

He told me of his opera, which I had remembered reading in the paper. My uncle had not attended the performance and I could only imagine what he would have thought of such a lusty story on the stage, not to mention what had happened in the theater itself.

"I hoped Christine would at least pity me or allow me to die in her arms," he said under his breath with more sincerity than I cared to hear. "I couldn't even get a death wish to go as I had wanted. Not even hell would have me at that point."

I don't think he realized how much hell he had been through.

"Yet you still loved her," I said.

I waited silently for him to tell me he still did love her, that no matter what she did to him, there would always be a place for her in his heart. More than anger, I felt a surge of sadness and remorse for him, wondered what he had endured that made him continue to return to someone who hurt him time and again.

I knew very well what it was like to be the victim, to see no possible chance of escape. I had smiled through many horrors, had swallowed my tears and bravely looked on when I felt hollow inside. Sometimes the worst trap keeping me pinned to Louis was my own insecurities. There could have been an escape, but I was too afraid to leave. Looking at Erik, I knew he'd been too afraid to walk away, to leave what he thought he knew.

"I want to prove I am more than a monster to her," he said. "I want to be more than a beast who heard a voice. That's what I want."

"What you want?" I questioned.

He licked his lips. "What I wanted for many years," he said. "Now…" He looked past me and I glanced over my shoulder to see what had caught his attention. He stared at himself in the mirror, hopelessness consuming his gaze. "Now I want to be an ordinary man."

I looked at the drawer where he'd abandoned his note from the soprano and frowned. He had done much in his past, many shameful tricks and ploys to gain affection. He knew he had been foolish, though I doubted he understood he was no better now than he'd been ten years ago. I wondered what would have happened if Comte de Chagny had gotten hold of him much earlier, if he would have killed Erik years ago. In a way, I was almost certain this would somehow save Erik, if he could be redeemed. There was no further he could fall, though he had certainly tried to dig himself a deeper hole.

"Will you tell Alex?" I asked, nodding toward the drawer.

"No." He answered faster than I had anticipated.

"He may have heard her come to the door."

Of course he had heard her come to the door and I had no doubt he had listened to every word. If nothing else, Erik had taught him the art of being silent as a cat.

"I have no doubt he heard her," he said, sound almost proud of him for his actions. I should have guessed he'd appreciate Alex's stealth. "But I don't give a damn if he heard her. This he will not know, this he will not suffer."

"But if his father—"

"I am his father," he said, his voice low and stern. His eyes widened, his jaw set. He reached for the note and showed it to me as if there would be concrete proof of his paternity. "I know I am his father."

Other than a surly streak, they shared little else in common. Alex had a temper that matched his father's, though I assumed that was a learned behavior as he was also witty and charming just like Charles, and he would dramatically protest much like Lisette. He was a wonderful imitator of his surroundings, a parrot for his father and his tutor. He was very bright and vibrant, a product of the people who had raised him.

He didn't play an instrument as far as I knew, which Erik passed off as his son's impatience. Music had not yet found him, he would say, though as the son of a composer and a soprano, I had no idea how talent didn't ooze from his very soul, unless it was not fully encompassed in his parents' talent. The Comte was not a man of musical talent either.

Erik's proof of claiming the right of fatherhood furrowed my brow, his evidence little more than a smudge on the back of the letter—a faked bruise to draw him out.

"Why would she bother?" I asked.

"She knows how I despise men beating women," he answered.

He looked me in the eye when he spoke and I felt myself inwardly shudder at his words. For a moment my own past crept into my thoughts and I studied him, wondering how such gentleness could exist in the midst of turbulence. He was as vast as an ocean; both calm waters and tumultuous waves.

"I taught her many things," he said, rambling on as he voiced his thoughts. "Most were just sideshow attractions but they amused her, just as they would a Persian Princess or Sultan."

"I beg your pardon?"

He paused abruptly and stared at me with his lips parted. "I—I said nothing," he stammered. "Just…thoughts."

I had caught him in a lie and he knew it, but now was not the time for elaboration. I had heard him whisper _Sultana_ several times over the years, almost always in a panic-stricken voice. The first time I expected it was a dream about a lover, but the way he woke with a start, jolted out of a nightmare, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what or who plagued his dreams. Each time he woke and said that name, he reached for his throat.

Wisely I chose to change the subject.

"Erik," I said as I handed him the note. "Do you think Alex looks like the Comte?"

He shook his head at once, which I expected. Though I hadn't seen much of the man, I didn't think Alex resembled either de Chagny or Erik. For what it was worth, he favored his birth mother. I knew Erik realized this and wondered if as much as he adored his son, he also saw Christine each time he looked at him. I thanked God Lissy and I shared the same traits.

I wanted nothing more than Alex to be his son. The thought of losing this child would kill him, destroy him in the way Christine had almost succeeded in doing all of these years whether she knew it or not. Alex was everything to him, even when he failed to show it.

"Please understand, I want nothing more than for Alex to belong to you," I said. "But how will you know, how will _she_ know that he is your blood?"

"He's more than my blood. He is my life." He stared back at me, his eyes filled with desperation, but unwavering passion. "There is nothing that concerns me past that."

His words made me shiver as I looked back at him, knowing he had accepted Alex without a second thought. Even if he did see a trace of another man in his son's face or actions, he would never think twice of it. He had made Alex his son in every sense of the word and nothing would keep him from loving him—not even his birth mother. I dared not think what would happen if anyone attempted to take Alex from him. I knew Erik would die first before Alex was taken from him and it frightened me to think he didn't care. His life meant nothing without this child.

Before I could say a word, a dog howled and I saw his dismal, sullen visage immediately light up. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and I pursed my lips at his display. Naturally he showed little joy in my company—after all I had done little for him—but the dog he said he supposedly didn't care for immediately changed his disposition. Perhaps I would have won him over if I had licked his face.

"Madeline," Erik said under his breath. He feigned excitement in seeing Madame Giry though I knew he really wanted to see his dog. He managed to find his strength and balance and hobbled his way to the window to look out. Instinct took over and he shielded his face with his hand as he peered out.

A soft groan left his lips and I knew he was still in a great deal of pain, but he had pushed it aside on behalf of a loved one. Secretly I wondered how many times in his life he had done this, how many moments he had sacrificed his own well-being for someone else. I knew already he was not a man that enjoyed or sought much comfort as agony had seemingly plagued him.

"I'll see Madame inside," I said. "But the dog…I don't want muddy footprints everywhere and you need to keep the wounds sanitary."

He didn't seem to notice my words and nodded readily, offering me a glance over his shoulder. Nothing I said mattered when it came to the long-eared dog still howling as she approached the house. He would devise a plan and spirit her into the house, no matter my protest.

I started to leave but paused and looked him over one last time, glad for the change in his disposition. It had been far too long since I'd seen him genuinely excited for something in his life, other than Christine—and she was not in his life."

Oh, and Erik, if you're planning on staying here much longer, at least attempt to limp."

I heard him grunt before I closed the door and knew not only had I caught him, but that for once he wasn't about to argue.


	39. Suggestion and Power

Julia39

It wasn't like me to eavesdrop, but I stood in the hall and listened to Erik speak with Alex before bed and smiled to myself at their exchange, impressed by how gracefully Erik handled his son's questions. Although he had little patience for anything else in the world, he listened intently to Alex ramble on about the fair, which I knew Erik hated. Without taking a breath, Alex voiced whatever came to mind and his father sat as his willing audience.

This was the man I had grown to love, the quiet, kind individual who voiced his irritations loudly in one breath and then chuckled over how the dog bayed each time she saw him. Hearing Alex and Erik speak to one another reminded me of how much I missed Erik before the nonsense with Christine.

I wondered if they had ever shared such intimate moments, though I already knew the answer, especially given the events of the last few days. It bothered me that Christine had given Erik a son but never a moment of conversation that we had shared over the years, and I wondered who was truly the _placee_.

At last I entered the room and watched Alex trudge reluctantly from his father's side. I kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair and told him to sleep well, which earned me a glare. He looked back at his father one last time before he gave a heavy, dramatic sigh and trudged from the room.

"You did very well by him," I said. I had never complimented him on his child rearing, but I knew he needed to hear he had treated Alex well.

He said absolutely nothing in response, but he stared at me for a long time with a peculiar twinkle in his eye I hadn't expected.

"There's a bath drawn," I said as I checked the clock and was surprised at the hour."It's almost eleven but I suspect you wouldn't mind cleaning up and changing clothes."

"And dinner as well. You never brought anything for me." He utterly pouted, worse than the children.

I raised a brow and did everything in my power to keep my gaze from his, as I knew what would happen if I looked him in the eye. "When you're situated again I'll have dinner prepared. I apologize for it being so late. Mme Giry stayed longer than I had expected. I would have drawn a bath two hours ago but—"

"Have you taken a bath yet?"

It took all of my strength not to toss my head back and laugh at his bold question. My cheeks burned and the thoughts running through my mind of us both entangled within the bathtub. Just the sound of his voice and the suggestion of his words made my breath faster.

"This morning."I scoffed and folded the blanket at the end of the bed even though it was perfectly laid out. I was desperate to occupy my hands, less I occupy them on him. "Though, honestly it's none of your concern."

"This morning isn't, but tonight is," he replied smoothly.

"Quit grinning," I snapped, though my tone failed to come off as commanding or frustrated, aside from in the deepest, most urgent part of my body. He suddenly realized I could see his every move from the mirror—and I realized he could see me smiling back as well.

He watched me fidget for a while longer and I honestly had no idea why I stayed within the room, other than I wanted him to cajole me into poor decisions, sweep me off my feet, and kiss me tenderly for hours.

"How big is your bathtub?" he ventured.

His persistence was quite impressive, if not obnoxious.

"It's only big enough for one person. Erik, your behavior is not amusing."

"You could sit—"

"Your son and my daughter are upstairs. This is highly inappropriate."

"If it's inappropriate then how do families ever have more than one child?"

He had a valid point, though I refused to give into our mutual desires. He was still quite injured, and despite his roving eyes, I could still see the pain etched on his face, the discomfort from being beaten nearly to the end of his life. I wondered how he could even think of sharing an intimate moment in his current state, though I suspected he wanted a way to forget his agony and indulge in shared pleasure.

"Being this irritating must be terribly exhausting."

"Then sleep with me."

He had never, as far as I could recall, dared to be so bold. I laughed without intending to entertain him, and I saw his smile widen in appreciation. He had me in the worst, most delicious way possible and I realized I wanted to be taken. Still, it was my duty to keep him in line. "Don't be so presumptuous. Your bathwater is getting cold. I suggest you…"

"Undress?" he said, cutting me off before I could finish.

If I dared let him say another word, I knew I would be in the tub with him.

"There is a wicker basket in the water closet already. Go and…disrobe…alone. Oh for God's sake, Erik, quit looking at me!" I sighed in feigned disgust, even though I couldn't help but look at him and wish to succumb to his words.

But there was a time for pleasure, I knew, and love if I denied him now. It would all too easily slip away from both of us if I entertained his ideas.

"I'll warm your dinner while you bathe. The clothes Madame Giry brought over are hung up for you. She brought you a robe as well, though I think I left it in the kitchen. I'll put it on the bed for you when you are done. Leave the dirty clothes on the floor and I will take care of them once you've finished bathing."

He looked disappointed but didn't protest and I wondered if he resigned himself to rejection or if he silently devised another plan. I walked into the kitchen, slid the pan from out of the cupboard and still found his enigmatic smile emblazoned in my thoughts.

I wondered if he knew the power he exuded over me simply by meeting my eye or a growled phrase of how much he despised Luc Testan. The intensity in his words, the self-assured posture mixed with just a hint of carefully executed cynicism excited me in a way I couldn't describe.

Long before I'd ever seen Erik, I felt immensely attracted to him in a way I'd never been drawn to anyone else before. Quite simply, I wondered if I was drawn to the amount of aggravation he provided, though honestly he had only disrupted my life over the course of several days. Before Christine arrived, I had enjoyed his company.

The pan slipped through my fingers and I cursed under my breath. That man knew what effect he had on me—and all too willingly I allowed him to penetrate my thoughts.

That was all he would be penetrating for a while, I thought—or so I foolishly tried to convince myself.


	40. Deepest Wounds

A/N I never meant to abandon these stories and leave them as unfinished. It was nice to come back after a long absence and still get reviews, so thanks for coming back to Erik and Julia's story. The last few months, Kire would just not shut up, so I sort of anticipate writing quite a lot for him. Just recently I started "Of Persia" to fill in one of the gaps in his story and I have really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading it. Thanks ~ Gabrina

Julia40

Nearly an hour passed before he emerged from the guest room. He looked uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched, his lips taut. When he saw me he immediately straightened and I knew he made every attempt to hide his pain. If he was a master of nothing else, it was hiding his feelings.

Something about seeing him there forced my eyes away, though I saw him shift his weight and turn his head to the side as though it would aid me if he looked away and hid the right side of his face.

"There are fresh towels for you." I turned back to face him and crossed my arms once I noticed he stared at my breasts rather than my face. I smiled as I looked him over.

His features softened and he sighed.

"Oh, Erik."

"I do beg your pardon?" he said gruffly.

"That was nice of you." I wanted to change the subject, as he continued to stare unabashedly at me.

"What was nice of me?"

"What you said about Alex. That was good for him to hear."

Immediately he looked away from me and stared at the doorframe as though he studied the workmanship. "What did he hear?" he asked, his voice suddenly low.

I had embarrassed him, I knew, but I had no qualms of telling him how much the tenderness he'd shown was necessary, perhaps for all of us. "Everything he needed to hear."

His face contorted with emotion and he swallowed as he ran his fingers along the wall. I stepped toward him, wanting him to know I was there with him. "It shouldn't have been necessary. He should have already known. He should have…"

I rested my hand on his chest and he released a heavy, weary sigh. "He always knew that you loved him," I whispered. "He just needed to hear you say it."

He nodded and stood before me with his eyes cast down. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then thought better of stirring intimacy up between us. Once I noticed his posture changed, I paused and straightened his collar. He looked me dead in the eye and caught me smiling and I thought for sure he would grab me by the wrist and tell me I was a wicked woman.

"Take your time. Dinner will be ready when you're done. If you need anything…and you know what I mean so don't you even start with me again…there's a bell on the floor by the tub."

He rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. "I could be drowning and I wouldn't use a bell. That's ridiculous. A bell indeed!"

It was all I needed to hear from him, his outburst over something so trivial that always made me chuckle. Half the time I thought my amusement made him realize how truly ridiculous his irritation was, though that hardly stopped him.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had almost fully unbuttoned his shirt.

"Madame," he said hoarsely, his gaze drawn to mine. "If you wish to end up in the tub, by all means continue."

My fingers grazed his bare flesh and I heard his breaths come hard and ragged. Each exhale seemed to echo my own unsteady heartbeat and I know if he had swept his arm around me, I would not have denied him.

But then I saw a hint of pain in his eyes as I pressed my hand to the middle of his stomach. He grimaced just slightly, just enough to tell me the pressure hurt. He would never admit to it.

With a sigh of reluctance, I dragged my finger higher on his chest and tapped him with my index finger. His expression sobered as I stepped back.

"Wash up," I said sternly. "You smell like a horse."

"A gelding," he muttered.

He took the liberty of bathing for a full hour, but I tiptoed down to see if he was passed out in the tub as he was unusually quiet. I pressed on the door and it creaked open, but he didn't seem to notice my presence.

I inhaled sharply at the sight of him, the full length of his body visible as he stood outside the tub and before the mirror. It wasn't his nakedness that caused me to inhale, but the multitude of injuries that made his lower back a dark canvas. He grimaced as he gingerly touched the deep bruises and I heard him take a deep breath.

"My God," he said softly. He neared the mirror and turned his face to the side where he carefully examined the stitches.

Of all the wounds I had seen in my life, suturing his face had been nearly unbearable, not because of the injuries he'd been born with, but how fragile his flesh had been beneath the needle. It felt as though it would tear apart at any moment and I couldn't even begin to grasp what agony he experienced at my hand.

Erik turned quickly and I bolted from the door, afraid he had heard me breathing or suspected I eavesdropped. I knew he was keenly aware of his surroundings and often looked over his shoulder as though he suspected he was followed. I hadn't dared to ask what created such awareness and I doubted I wanted to know.

He flung the door open, a towel secured around his hips, and eyed me with utter surprise.

"What in God's…Julia? May I assist you?"

"Your robe," I said meekly. I practically flung it over his outstretched arm and quickly turned. My neck felt hot to the touch, my face burning with embarrassment. "Your dinner is done. Do you want to eat alone?"

I knew he studied me, most likely wondering how long I had been standing in the hall or my true intentions for waiting outside the door where he bathed. "Are you offering to join me?"

"Only for dinner," I answered quickly. "You are a scoundrel, do you know that?"

"Indeed, and yet you wait for me?"

He had me there. "I wanted to make certain you hadn't fallen, seeing as how you refused the bell."

He smiled in appreciation. It had been a long time since he'd smiled at me and I had forgot how much I enjoyed his presence. "Shall we?" he asked.

I lead him back to his room and told him to dress and situate himself and I would return shortly. When he remained standing and staring, I threatened not to feed him unless he was dressed and under the covers.

Moments later, I arrived with his supper and handed him his food on a tray. He didn't say a word until he had nearly finished his plate.

"Have you devised a room charge for me yet?" he questioned.

"You've been more trouble than money is worth," I mumbled with my eyes closed.

"Then I'll pay you in another way," he said softly.

"Oh, Erik," I sighed, though his voice sent a rumble of unsatisfied desire through me. "How can you even think like that in your condition?"

"Quite easily. I look at…"

His words ended abruptly, too abruptly for my taste and I wondered what in the world he stated at while I innocently rested my eyes. I immediately sat up and popped my eyes open.

"You what?"

He took his time chewing his food and I knew he was stalling. I knew him all too well.

"Tell me," I insisted. I suspected he would answer in his piggish, unthinking way and tell me how lovely my breasts looked as I reclined, or how the swell of my hips made him insatiable.

"It was nothing."

"Then if it was nothing tell me. Right this minute tell me what you were going to say," I said as I pressed my fingers into the chair.

"Fine," he said, suddenly agitated. "I look at you and nothing hurts."

For a full minute I sat, mouth agape, and stared at him. His words were so raw, so filled with honesty, that I repeated them in my mind to make certain I had heard him correctly. He watched me and slowly withdrew, his back suddenly straight as a board. He lowered his gaze and stared at his plate, his eyes wide with horror as though he had revealed something far too intimate.

For years I had been the reason behind Louis's boundless fury. It was my shortcomings that angered him, that made him drink, made him stray, and made him angry. I had caused pain to my husband and to myself—and to my daughter, he often told me. I had never healed our relationship; I was the burden.

Tears slid down my cheeks and Erik's head snapped up. He had never looked more horrified, more plagued by shame than when he met my eye.

"I'm sorry. Go ahead and eat. I'll be fine."

"Julia?" he questioned.

"No really, I'll be fine." I sniffled again. "It's just that…No one has ever said that to me before," I whispered. "Louis would tell me that he only had to look at me to go to other women. He told me that on our wedding night, when I was two months pregnant with his child."

"He never deserved you. Not one day of his pathetic life did he deserve you."

I pressed my eyes shut and whispered my gratitude.

I He fell silent and took a deep breath. "I do not deserve you."

The plate and silverware clattered as he placed them on the bedside table and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Erik, you need to rest," I cautioned.

"Lay down with me," he whispered, his tone soft and unbearably inviting.

The moment I began to protest, he gently squeezed my arm. "I'm not asking for you to sleep with me."

"Erik, don't—"

"You've exhausted yourself," he reasoned."You need the rest or you'll make yourself sick. Stay only for a moment. You don't even have to stay the night, just for a moment," he pleaded. I imagined he was more lonely than concerned until I met his eye and saw unabashed sincerity.

"If I lay down I won't want to get up."

"Then stay."

"But the children."

"They're fine. They're both sleeping." He grasped my hand and I knew he expected me to follow. Despite my protest and reasoning, I knew Lisette would think nothing of me sleeping beside Erik and I doubted Alex knew enough to make much of it. They were both still quite innocent, ignorant to romance and passion. "Just for a while. Just a little while. I promise…I swear I won't even attempt—"

"After everything you've said tonight? I hardly believe that."

He looked at me with sincerity, a true gentleman pulling me into bed. "I swear it on my life, Julia. Just once I want to fall asleep and feel someone else beside me."

I sat on the edge of the bed and faced away from him, tears pricking my eyes. All I could think of was how every night he joined me, I dreaded him leaving me alone again.

"Why did you always leave in the middle of the night, then? Why did you dress as soon as you were satisfied and return to your own bed?"

He inched away from me and I half expected him to stand and leave. "I didn't want you to see me in the light of day," he said under his breath.

I looked at him from over my shoulder. "That's ridiculous. I saw everything else of you."

His expression hardened and I knew he expected rejection. "Would you have let me come back had you seen it?"

"It. It? What is 'it', Erik? It's your face, not some…some foreign object."

"If you had seen my face would you have asked me to come back?" he clarified. He looked at me then as though suddenly it was a challenge.

I sighed, frustrated with him, though I understood his concerns. As much as I wanted to believe I accepted him regardless, that had not been the case in his experience. "That was five years ago. I don't know what I would have done."

"And now that you know would you let me stay the night?" he asked, his voice suddenly tinged with anger.

"You honestly don't know the answer by now? I married Louis, the most handsome man I had ever seen and what did I get from him? I got beaten once a week, I had women come by the house looking for him and I got raped when I complained about his mistresses. That is what I got from him. The ugliest thing in the world was his betrayal, his treatment of me and his own daughter. I would have preferred waking to you every day of my life rather than finding him beside me for even one morning."

I bowed my head and waited for him to speak, fully expecting him to do whatever he could to push me away, as was his untrusting nature. When he said nothing, I swung my legs onto the bed and lay beside him.

For a long moment I waited for him to have the last word, but he fell silent. Exhausted, I turned down the lamp. I turned onto my side to face him and saw his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Without a sound I studied him, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I felt no disgust when I looked at him, no sense of fear or loathing when I met his eye. He visibly swallowed and I knew he had difficulty keeping his gaze trained on mine.

We lay beside each other for a long moment when I placed my palm gently against his cheek and felt him shiver.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked.

He blinked away his tears. "No," he answered carefully.

"This," I said softly as I caressed him. "This is what I wished was beside me each morning for the past ten years."


	41. Virgins

If you're wondering why you got two updates, rest assured it's because I uploaded the wrong version. If you read it already, you may want to skim through again to the middle since the one I uploaded had my "guide" from AHTW mixed in. Julia's recollection gets an N for Naughty!

Julia41

For a man who surrendered to no one, he gave himself to me. I sensed his hesitation as I gazed into his eyes and gently touched his shoulder. He rolled onto his side to face me and frowned. What I would have given to know his thoughts in that moment.

"Julia…"

"Shhh."

He would sabotage the moment, regardless of how much he craved our intimacy. He would ask me to stop not only because he feared my reaction, but he wanted to protect me from whatever it was he thought I saw in him. He had always been painfully careful to make certain I only saw what he wished me to see, to mask his true identity and vulnerabilities, but that had abruptly ended.

To my surprise he obeyed and stayed quiet. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leaned into me and I did the same. I studied his lips and the way they moved, careful and seductive.

_I love you_, he mouthed. _I love you more than anything._

The hesitancy he displayed turned to urgency and I pressed myself to the length of his body and touched my lips to his. He sighed and groaned softly, thought it was as much as I wanted to hear. Over the years I stopped expecting such a small but intimate gesture and came to expect he would kiss my fingers or neck, but when I met his eye, he would turn away. Eventually I stopped trying.

His lips parted and I sighed, wanting every ounce of his passion. My mind reeled, my heart beating so fast I thought for certain he could feel as we lay chest to chest, heart to heart. His tongue touched to mine and I gripped him harder, telling him how much I had wanted this moment, how long I had waited to feel him in this way. This should have been the first step, not the last. Everything would have been different if he had just allowed me to kiss his lips.

The feel of his breaths against my face, the taste of his lips on mind became an electrifying sensation. I didn't realize I had groaned in pleasure until he pulled away.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered.

I shook my head and smiled. "No, but I wanted to ask you the same thing."

He held me to him and I felt his desire for something more. Despite what I had said, I wanted him, especially when he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me gently.

For all of his initial uncertainty, Erik was a man of endless passion. He insisted on perfection when it came to his music and as he looked me in the eye, I knew he wanted to please me, to make everything about the night flawless. In all the nights we spent together, he made certain I was blissfully satisfied. Within months he came to realize satisfaction for a woman could be repeated in the same encounter and he strived for perfection in his lover's duties.

He ran his thumb along my cheek and searched my face before he kissed me again, this time softer. I could have savored his affection throughout the night, but I knew he was somehow controlling his urges.

"Rest well," he whispered.

He held me close and I closed my eyes, wondering if he knew how secure I felt in his arms. He ran his fingers through my hair and traced along my cheekbones and jaw line. He paused at the corner of my eye and I heard his breathing change.

The scar, I knew, bothered him immensely. With my eyes closed, I smiled and turned my face until my lips brushed against the inside of his wrist. He settled in beside me and took one last, long breath before the rhythm evened out and I knew he dozed.

There was nothing I found as comforting as the nights he lay beside me and slept, even if only briefly. It seemed to be the only moments when he completely let down his guard and showed his true self, when he was as vulnerable as I was in his presence. It was then, when he was at peace in the world, that I truly fell in love with him.

I opened my eyes and studied his face in the darkness and wondered how he would have reacted. He would never have believed me if I had told him Louis was the ugliest man I had ever met.

Erik groaned, but before he opened his eyes, I pressed my lips to his and felt him immediately kiss me back as though it were instinct.

"You're still here?" he murmured.

"I am."

I wanted to tell him I was never the one who left. He relaxed and smiled in the darkness.

"Julia," he said softly.

"Sleep," I said.

It wasn't yet dawn when I unintentionally woke him—or at least that's what I wanted to believe. He said my name in his dreams and I touched him softly, ran my fingers through the hair on his chest and gently drew hearts along his flesh with my index finger. Hearing my name spoken made me smile. It had been many months since I felt I was on his mind.

There was a scrape against his ribs, which looked as though it was from the bottom of someone's shoe dragging along his flesh. It had only been three days since he had been beaten, and the sight of the injuries still made me shudder. He perhaps deserved a good shake and slap to the face, but he hadn't deserved a beating to this extent, especially three men against one only armed with his own foolish misconceptions.

"Julia," he whispered, his voice clouded with sleep. "Why are you still here?"

"To make sure you're still breathing," I said. I kissed his throat and felt him shift, his arm snaking beneath me.

"I am more than just breathing," he replied as he pulled me on top of him.

"I see that," I answered with a chuckle—and I felt it as well.

Good senses abandoned, I kissed him full on the mouth and knew we would find ourselves entangled, abandoned by our promises, or rather my insistence, that he rest himself. Though I swore I would not fall victim to his charm, I found myself nibbling his fingertips.

I tilted my head up and found him watching me, a twinkle in his heavily lidded eyes. The swelling had gone down considerably and he smiled at me, appreciating the view and most likely his achievement of keeping me not only in bed, but pinned to him.

Unabashedly I gave him what he wanted and touched his bare chest and arms, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingers. I moved gently, afraid I would hurt him when he was still tender—and also fully aware he would not say a word even if I did press my fingers into him. Only his exhale gave him away, and I snaked up his body to press my lips to his.

He held me to him, his hands trembling as he swept them down the length of my spine and urged me closer. With my knee between his thighs, I already knew how close he wanted me and with each passing second I found little reason to deny him or myself.

I shifted and he grunted, the sound one of pure agony and I realized I had pressed onto his side. Taking a deep breath, I kissed his chest and he ran his fingers along my braid and tugged at the string holding it in place. Without a word he unraveled my neatly kept hair and I knew it was only the beginning. He wouldn't stop until I was completely unraveled before him.

"You're still bruised," I whispered between kisses. "We should stop."

"Do you want to stop?"

I released a hard sigh of my own frustration. "It isn't about what I want. It's about what's best. And for you right now I think it's best if we stop."

"Why?"

"Why? What did I just say?" I pulled at my night dress, which he had managed to inch up to my thighs. He immediately placed his hand on my leg, which I removed. "Are you even listening?"

Honestly, he made me forget the topic at hand.

"You're distracting at the moment."

"And you're hurt."

"That was three days ago. I'm fine."

"And in a week you will be even better," I said as I rolled onto my side and lay beside him.

He closed his eyes and frowned. "In a week I'll be dead from lack of blood flow."

I couldn't help but laugh at his sardonic words. For good measure, I tapped him on the chest. "Oh, hush."

He pulled my leg over his hip and smiled in the most devilish way. "And now you're adding to the bruises." He gripped my thigh and inhaled. "And you said you were my nurse."

"I am your nurse."

"Then why must you leave me in such obvious discomfort, Madame?"

I smirked at his playful ways. "From where my leg is at the moment another bruise should be the least of your worries."

He would not be so easily swayed and I knew as he shifted that he would give me few reasons to stop. He knelt over me and kissed my neck, causing my toes to curl and all reason to leave me. "Tell me that you honestly want to stop," he whispered, his voice low and seductive.

"Erik, I'll kick you," I said, though my voice quivered in anticipation of his touch.

Surprisingly, he stopped. "Julia, I'm serious. I'm fine, but if you don't want to, then tell me right now and I'll stop."

I ran my fingers along the back of his neck and gazed up at him, seeing him as I had never done before. "I know you will. And I don't want you stop, but—"

It was all he needed to hear; his lips pressed to mine, his tongue searching my parted lips. I gripped his sides, trailed my fingers down his back and up again as he ground his hips against mine. My legs parted, my body willing him to sate my most intimate desires. With his body cradled between my thighs, I pressed my heel into his lower back and immediately he tensed.

"My God," he muttered, his eyes pinched closed with pain, though he attempted to smile. "How I want you," he added, though his voice had lost its passion.

"What did I tell you?" I warned. I looked at him with genuine concern for his well being, but he smiled when he looked down at me and gently moved my foot.

"There," he said.

"Erik," I said. Surely we could please one another in a different way.

"_Ma petit _there are no need for words," he murmured as he shifted and moved my night dress further up my legs. His broad hands on the insides of my thighs made it difficult to argue.

I lost myself to his gentle but instant touch. He unbuttoned my night gown while I slid his pajama pants down his hips and felt the warmth of his flesh against mine. I giggled as he cuesed and shook one leg out, then the other, and he smiled as he kissed me again.

It felt like the actions of young, inexperienced lovers hungry for a taste of passion. He looked at me as though it were the first time we had been together, and the shy smile playing on his lips made me blush. I knew it would be different this time to lay with him and the excitement I felt in his arms was almost too much to bear.

"Did you lock the door?" I whispered as he trailed kisses from my breasts to my stomach.

He paused, his chin resting against my belly button. "Yes."

It was one thing if we were caught buried beneath the sheets, but he had me naked on the bed with his lips against my stomach. I started to sit up, but he knelt over me and took me by the wrists. Seconds passed and the house was silent.

"It's just us. No one else."

I looked him in the eye and nodded, silently giving my permission to continue. He started where he left off, and within moments I felt myself tremor with absolute, divine pleasure. He touched me in a way he never had before, his lips and tongue rendering me helpless. When he felt me quiver at the feel of his touch, when he heard my breaths come hard and fast, he eased me slowly and crawled up my body.

I took his face in my hands and closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead, his actions gentle and soothing. He offered me a moment to catch my breath.

"I want to please you," I murmured.

"You have," he said. "When I please you, my sweet Julia, it pleases me. The music of your sighs is joy beyond compare."

He parted my legs and released a harsh breath as he entered me. All fears of hurting him vanished, and the only thought on my mind was how much I wanted to please him, to give him what he so readily gave to me.

He kissed me softly and looked into my eyes and I felt more connected to him than I had ever felt before. I smiled against his kisses, sighed with each urgent thrust, and held him close until he purposely pulled back and rested against my thigh. Even overcome with pleasure, he was still careful.

When at least he stilled, he buried his face against the crook of my neck and groaned softly, kissing me again.

"I was a virgin before tonight," he said against my flesh and I knew what he meant. Everything about us had changed.

I licked my lips and nodded, savoring the taste of him. "So was I."


	42. Old Memories

Thank you to Jax for helping beta this chapter and for also stepping in to help with Of Persia too.

Julia42

Old Memories

It was late in the morning when I opened my eyes again. I doubted I had ever slept as soundly as I did in his arms, and when I woke with a start, Erik seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

"How long have you been awake?" I questioned as I stood, ran—naked, no less—to the bedroom door and made certain it was locked. Just as I had suspected, the knob turned.

"Locking yourself inside with me for the remainder of the day?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes and turned to face him. With a smile on his face, he watched me attempt to cover myself and was audacious enough to chuckle at my plight.

"Would you stop?"

He tossed me my nightdress and leaned back, the blanket draped over him barely covering his hips.

"You should dress as well unless you want to explain to your son why you are indecent," I muttered.

From the corner of my eye I saw him stand and struggle to thread his legs into his underclothes and pajama bottoms. He reached for his shin and inhaled sharply, but quieted once he noticed me watching him.

"You should really take something for the pain," I said as I raked my fingers through my tangled hair.

He ignored my words and cleared his throat. "I'm perfectly fine."

Lisette called my name and I gasped, then shouted for her to wait a moment. Erik looked disappointed that we'd been interrupted, though he still watched me straighten my hair. He frowned, but as I expected he offered no further conversation. Somehow I managed to convince him I needed to tidy the house and care for the children. I gave him one last kiss and promised to return soon.

Later in the day, after a visit with Meg and allowing Erik privacy with his son, I returned to find him sitting uncomfortably at the edge of the bed. His complexion had turned sallow, his shoulders hunched.

"I am going to the doctor's home in a few hours to see if I can find you something better for the pain." I sat beside him, studying his ashen face. It was difficult to tell if physical or emotional pain had taken a toll on him. So often I had looked at myself in the mirror and found the two indistinguishable.

"I don't need anything. I'm fine," he replied immediately.

"You're hardly fine. You had a dislocated shoulder, your head was split wide open, and you're bruised as black as night."

"That was days ago," he said tightly.

"No one would think less of you, if that's your concern."

"I am not concerned with anyone's opinion."

"Erik—"

"I said no."

He struggled to find a comfortable position and I frowned, upset by his need to deny his health. "Just a small dose of morphine to take the edge off. You'll feel much better."

"No. Do not ask me again."

At once he glared at me, the determination in his eyes making it clear he would not change his mind. I knew morphine could become addictive and wondered if he had once found the pain relief a forbidden pleasure. With what little he'd told me of his past, I suspected escape had been necessary and decided it was best to allow him to cope with the past and present on his own terms.

"I wish you no harm," I said softly as I turned to face him.

His expression softened. "I appreciate your concern, Julia." He leaned forward and kissed me softly. "I honestly do."

I squeezed his bruised hand gently. "I hope one day you'll trust me enough to tell me why you fight so hard."

He took a breath. "If I had fought harder, there would be nothing to tell."

His words made me shiver.

"You will be out today, then?" he asked, which I suspected was merely a ploy to change the subject.

"Only briefly. Lisette will come with me so you needn't worry of being disturbed. Do you want to eat dinner at the table today?" I asked.

"What about your daughter?"

"What about her? I said she was coming with me."

"No, I meant at the dinner table. She's never seen me…like this."

Honestly, she had never seen him at all, except from at a distance or in shadow. When she visited with Alex, she would tell me how Monsieur Lowry let her read a book he had authored and how she could hear Alex's father mutter to himself, but that he was mostly invisible. This was what he preferred.

"True. But you can't stay holed up in one room forever."

He nodded, but his expression lacked sincerity, and I knew he had lived the better part of the last decade within one room. I smiled at him, hoping he would agree to dinner with his son and my daughter. From what Meg and even Alex had told me, Erik took his meals alone. I had tried in vain to convince myself he worked on music while he ate, but both Meg and Alex had said in their own way that he preferred avoiding people.

Expecting him at my own dinner table would be an exceptional feat.

"Where's the dog? Did Meg take her back?" he asked suddenly.

I grunted. "She did."

"What? When?"

He sounded absolutely appalled that the dog had left without him saying his farewell.

"I'll have you know that your dog spent the night in my bed."

"Indeed."

"Honestly, I found her curled up on my pillow, of all things, when I went to rest my eyes for a moment." I paused and he smiled, clearly appreciating his dog's choice of arrangements. "I had to change the sheets this morning. How do you sleep with all of that hair and drool…oh it's just dreadful."

His eyes narrowed as he considered my words. "She is no trouble," he insisted. "And she sleeps like a rock."

"She snores like a troll."

"You have told me the same thing, Julia."

"I prefer sleeping with you than the dog."

"For different reasons, I enjoy both of you."

I chuckled and ran my fingers along the back of his hand. "After dinner, Meg offered to have Alex and Lisette come over to make desserts for Friday."

"Then I shall have you to myself?"

I stood and looked him over. "I was thinking you wanted your dog."

He scowled but didn't say a word and I walked out of the room and told Lissy to dress herself. She clopped down the stairs like a horse and rattled the china in the cabinet with her pounding about.

"Will Alexandre's father join us for supper?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet."

She frowned. "Grand Mere Giry said Monsieur Kire will go to live with the devil if he indulges in midnight snacks one more time."

I raised a brow. "Did she?"

Lissy nodded readily. "I will pray very hard that he comes to supper and is full so he's not tempted to indulge in the middle of the night."

If only she knew to pray for her mother as well. "How very kind of you, Lissy. I will make certain Monsieur Kire knows you are concerned about his eating habits."

She smiled. "May I pray for Alex as well?"

"Yes, of course, but I don't think he's in any danger." Immediately her gaze lowered and I knew there was something on her mind. I placed my hands on her shoulders and bent to meet her eye. "What is it, darling?"

"I don't want the singer to steal him," she said, her tone almost frantic. "She thinks Alex is her son, but she isn't his mother, is she?"

I kept my voice low, afraid Erik would overhear the conversation and demand answers. "Why does Alex think she will steal him?"

Lisette grabbed my hand and I felt her anxiety ripple through her small fingers like a static shock. She swallowed hard. "She is a siren, and that's what beautiful monsters do, don't they?"

"There is no telling what some monsters may do," I told her.

oooOooo

Despite Erik's request, I still took home two small doses of morphine and placed them in the cabinet in case he should reconsider. The house was quiet when we arrived and Lisette asked to play with her dolls in her room, which I allowed.

Her words still bothered me, though I reasoned the woman had no room in her life, let alone her heart, to suddenly whisk away the son she had left behind. Reporters would hound her for information, and if the news ever spread she had a son out of wedlock, her career would be in shambles. She had diligently strived for her flawless public image. One misstep with Alex, who had no control over his tongue, and she would wish she'd never returned to Paris.

Alex walked in unannounced and asked if he could visit with his father and tell him about Roman architecture and how he wanted to build a bathhouse in the back garden rather than a bird bath. With a wave of his hand he told me a mere bird bath had been done, but assured me a bathhouse was an entirely new matter.

"Your father would be delighted, I'm sure," I told him before he shot down the hall. I started supper and found myself becoming increasingly nervous as dinner time approached. I hoped Erik would join us, especially with his son meeting his birth mother a mere twenty-four hours away. Despite my attempts to remain positive, in truth I was frightened to death—for both father and son.

At last I went to collect Alex and make him wash for supper. When I entered the room, Alex scurried out immediately, but Erik didn't appear to notice I had entered. In his hands he held a tattered but familiar leather book.

It took a moment for it to register, and when it did, I was livid. For the better part of the week I had worried endlessly over him as well as his son. Instead of resting, he had gone to the liberty of snooping through my belongings.

"Erik," I yelled. I slammed the guest room door shut and grabbed my journal from him. "Where in the hell did you get this?" I shouted as I gripped the book tightly as though somehow it would keep the words hidden forever.

Louis had never known it existed and I had carefully made certain no one else would ever read it. I should have suspected Erik would resurrect my most secret thoughts.

"The closet," he muttered. "Buried beneath a mound of your belongings."

I wondered if he realized how he crucified himself with his ignorant confession. "What were you doing going through my belongings? How dare you!"

"I didn't know what it was," he answered, sounding far too innocent for my liking.

I looked at the cover with my initials embossed in the leather and turned it toward him. "You had no idea? Honestly? You must think I'm ignorant."

"Yes, I know it seems I went prying, but it was in a box of books. I looked through all of them, not just that one."

Frustrated, I exhaled hard. "That does not excuse your prying."

He looked away. "It wasn't prying. You left me in a room with Pandora's box."

His inability to account for his own actions shouldn't have surprised me. He holed himself up in his room because no one dared to disturb him. He grumbled and stomped around because no one dared to approach him. Seeing where it had led him, I had grown tired of letting him have his way.

"How can you do this?" I questioned. I flipped through the pages, thinking of how many secrets I had scribbled within the pages. My hatred for Louis had been recorded, my frustration of raising a daughter as a widow, my family ties severed, my brother distancing himself from me. Every bitter, painful memory had stayed there until Erik decided to enter my private past. I hated how he wished to keep his a secret but would never allow mine to remain covered.

He refused to meet my eye, which only furthered my aggravation.

"How can you honestly take one step forward and then take a dozen backwards? This is mine! My personal belonging, my words, my feelings! Erik, this is mine!"

"I know," he answered blankly. "I only read a few pages."

I lifted my hand and considered smacking him across the face, but I stamped on the floor instead and pursed my lips together. Physically he'd been tormented enough, though I wondered if he understood my rage. God only knew what he had read in the hours I left him alone. A few pages, for all I knew, was half of my journal and I had held nothing back.

"Is nothing sacred to you?"

"I don't know."

He cowardly stared at his outstretched legs, so I pinched him so hard he flinched, which immediately garnered his full attention.

"What do you mean you don't know? Why would you do this? Why?"

"I saw my name."

Dear God, I wanted to say. There had been much to say about the enigmatic composer I often listened for every night. My journal writing had left little to be imagined, and my face went red as I thought of what he could have discovered.

In my private thoughts I was hardly a proper lady, but a lewd, bawdy woman frustrated with her lack of attention. At best, it was a laughable series of dates in which I practically preyed upon an unsuspecting musician. At worst it was a tawdry account of lust. It almost came as a surprise that the pages didn't catch fire beneath his fingertips.

"Don't you ever go through my things again," I shouted. I wasn't so much angry at him as I was mortified of what he may have read—and knowing him he had devoured every last word. More than anything, I was afraid he would think less of me, find me weak and incapable of controlling myself. "I should make you leave right this moment."

He nodded but didn't say a word to agree or protest.

I stormed toward the dresser and stood a moment, almost trembling in anger as I considered what I had committed to paper. In great detail I had recounted our time together, of how he touched me and made me feel. Emotionally it needed to be released. Over the past year I had quit entering my daily activities as he became more distant and his focus settled on Christine. I didn't want him to read how I felt about her, how I despised this woman encroaching on what I wanted to keep. I felt childish and ignorant for my pouting and wished I had put my words to better use and spoken to him. Perhaps it would have saved us a great deal of pain.

I looked at the book's spine, and, in a fit of rage, threw it across the room. I hadn't aimed it though it catapulted directly above Erik's head, hit the wall, and landed in his lap. The book opened and he blinked at the open pages, then looked up at me in sheer terror and closed it with a quick snap. He visibly swallowed.

"Do you know why I came in here? I came to tell you that you needed to dress for dinner, the dinner I prepared for you. I came to tell you Madame Giry invited me to lunch tomorrow so that you would not be alone with that woman." I paused, allowing my insult to sink in, but he never blinked. "I came to ask you if you wanted me to come with you in the first place, since God only knows why I value your opinion still. Everything I do around here is for you! And you don't even have the decency to respect me!"

"What do you want me to say?" he asked softly.

My anger was white hot. I wanted him to answer me, though in my heart I knew there was no appropriate response. In all of our years together I had never once yelled at him. There were times when he frustrated me, but I hated confrontation, as I was on the losing end of any argument. It hadn't crossed my mind that Erik and I had shared the same place in the past at the hands of different people.

"What do I want from you?" I asked with a humorless laugh. "Nothing, Erik. That's what I have come to expect from you. I have bent over backwards to care for you, I have done everything—more than everything—to take care of you and what do you do?"

"21 October, 1884. That was the last date I read up to," he blurted out suddenly.

My mouth fell open. God only knew what I had written, though I doubted I wanted to be reminded. I knew it was around the time we had first met. "What are you doing?"

"Reading the entry for the 22nd of October."

"Erik—"

"Fine. Then tell me this: did we sleep together the first time I came over to your house?"

The moment he spoke, I envisioned burying that ignorant fool in my garden. "What?"

"The first night you invited me over, did we sleep together?"

His question was almost laughable. "I cannot even believe I have to answer a question like that. You don't remember?"

"The past always differs from a man's views to a woman's."

"Why don't you tell me what happened? From a man's point of view," I said dryly.

"Because I'm not that much of a fool, that's why."

"This is insulting…."

"That's not my intention." There was a certain amount of desperation in his gaze that made me listen to him without judging his question. For whatever reason, he truly had no idea. "Please, just tell me what you remember."

I sighed in disgust, but still answered. Even without the journal I still remembered every detail and luckily, for his sake, it brought back an awkward but pleasant memory. "We had tea and that was it."

He stared at me with a look of surprise, though I had expected disappointment. His questions made me wonder if he had ever truly wanted me, or if I had merely become a substitute for his true, intangible desires.

"Only tea?" he asked.

"You came over and sat in the parlor and told me you wrote and submitted operas under a pen name," I continued. "You talked about music, your favorite composers, and ate all of my crumpets. That was all that happened. I told you good-night and asked you to come by again sometime. I'm not entirely sure you heard my invitation considering how quickly you disappeared."

"Was that what you wanted? A night of…crumpets?"

I grunted, finding him passionate in some moments and downright naïve and inexperienced in others. No other man would have considered a late night invitation as strictly food related, but Erik certainly did. No other man would have been invited to my house, I suppose. It was then that I knew I was no substitute; he had come to me because I fed him.

"It was a lovely evening." Perhaps _lovely_ was an embellishment, though I suppose for both of our sakes it was good to start out slowly rather than rushed, since neither of us had any idea what we were doing. The first night would have made for an interesting play.

"What are you trying to do? Get me to say something lewd?" I asked defensively.

"No," he answered quickly, seeming relieved.

"Why are you smiling, then?"

"I did respect you," he replied. "That was what I wanted to know."

For a long moment I eyed him and considered his words. I put the books back into the box he had naturally left just outside the closet and took a breath as I faced him. He handed over the journal with no protest and looked embarrassed.

"I read nothing," he said. "I swear it."

"Oh?"

"That is to say, nothing of importance."

"Well, then that sums up my existence," I muttered.

He looked defeated. "I would not wish excitement into your life," he said cautiously. "And by important I meant I saw Seuratti's name and that was the end of it."

Despite how he angered me, I knew he was, in his own maddening way, attempting to be sincere. "You are far from forgiven, Erik. Get dressed. Lisette and Alexandre already ate at your house, which you should be relieved to know."

He made a face. "Why am I dressing?"

"Because we are dining together, fool," I said as I tossed my hands in the air. "At the table, like proper, decent people."

"And why in the hell would we do that? The last time it didn't go very well. Or don't you remember that?" he argued.

"Of course I remember that. It was only five days ago! We're eating together because I want to talk to you, you dolt!"

"Fine, then what are we talking about?" he asked waving his hands about to imitate me.

I couldn't believe how quickly we went from inseparable lovers tangled in each others' arms to wanting to strangle him for his inconsiderate actions. I took a deep breath and placed my hands on my hips. "Your son. I'm concerned about your son."

He lowered his eyes and bowed his head. With a nod, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hobbled toward the dresser.


	43. A Different Past

Julia43

"Are Lisette and Alexandre joining us?" Erik asked once he emerged from the guest room. The children were racing after one another on the upper floor and the whole house seemed to tremor with their antics.

He had taken his time to dress for supper, and when I turned and saw him lingering in the doorway, he appeared tentative in joining me. After how our conversation ended I understood his hesitation.

"They are staying at your house," I answered. "Madame Giry said Lisette could stay with her until morning and Alex has been clamoring about sleeping in his own bed."

Given that our conversation would revolve around Alexandre, I thought it was best for him to stay within Erik's home. He was too young and I feared for him if he overheard us speaking of his future, especially concerning his birth mother and her desire to meet him. I also suspected Erik's surly mood would continue and he would say things he would potentially regret—or which would incriminate him.

When Erik saw me near the table, he quickly stepped toward me and pulled out the chair.

"Thank you," I said. He made no reply. I waited for him to sit across from me, which he did, but he still didn't look at me or say a word.

"It was a little mortifying to ask Madame Giry if she would watch the two," I continued. "Obviously she knows of our previous…arrangements…"

"Did she say something?"

"No, but she looked at me."

His eyes widened, and I knew he understood precisely what I meant. Only Madame Giry could look a person in the eye, smile brightly, and still leave them knowing she gravely disapproved. Perhaps it was her tone of voice or the depth of her stare.

"You survived the look. That's a good sign," he said.

Before I could reply, I heard both children barrel down the stairs, screaming at the top of their lungs. I pushed my chair back and marched toward the hall.

"Enough!" I yelled as I pounded my hand against the wall. Lisette froze first and Alex, seeing her stop, had sense enough to quit as well. They both turned and giggled as they trotted into the parlor.

"Why did they come back here?" he asked. "I thought they were helping Meg after supper."

"Alex said he needed something." I returned to the table once the two heathens disappeared.

"His books? Whatever he needed could have waited until morning when the rain stopped."

I piled food onto his plate. "He knows about lunch tomorrow with the vicomtess. I think he just wanted to see you again before the end of the day," I said quietly.

Erik went silent and closed his eyes. His shoulders tensed, and just when I thought he would quietly mutter to himself, he slammed his fist onto the table. The silverware rattled and his wine glass teetered before righting itself.

It broke my heart to think of Alex being sent away. Without entering the dining room, the children raced through the kitchen, waving and squealing, before sprinting out the back door. They carried on until they reached Erik's home.

Neither of us spoke and it felt as though Alex had disappeared forever, swallowed up by an uncertain tomorrow with a woman who had not seen him since he was weeks old. It seemed unfair that Erik had dedicated the last ten years to his son and now, in a matter of days, a woman who cared nothing for the man who had given her a child could steal the only thing he had ever been given.

He was devastated. I could tell by the way he sat in silence, his eyes trained on some distant point. Even if he was in a somber mood he usually had some gruff comment to make, but his silence worried me. I knew he was thinking of what he could do, what act of desperation could return Alex to him. He would stop at nothing; such was the depth of his heart.

"Erik," I said quietly.

"If she takes Alexandre with her I will never see him again. She'll never come to Paris. Not while I'm…alive."

His tone had turned distant, as though he had already considered giving up.

"She said she wanted to see him. She never said she wanted to keep him," I pointed out.

"She insinuated that he belongs to her precious vicomte."

"What do you think?"

"I don't want to think. I want to keep him."

"Yes, I know that, but knowing you as I do, you have nothing civil to say to the victomtess or her husband. You'll shoot yourself in the foot if you meet them tomorrow as a ranting, raving lunatic."

"He's not allowed in my house," he muttered.

"Who? Her husband?"

He faced away from me and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Nothing I say will matter. The gendarmes—"

"The gendarmes? What do they have to do with this?"

He wouldn't tell me, not without me picking at him. I moved my chair closer to his and stared at him in silence. He grasped tight to his agony, hid it away and allowed it to fester. I feared he would make himself sick if he continued.

"You cannot keep this to yourself," I said quietly.

But he would, just as he did so much of his life. He wasn't a private person, he was a secret. I reached for his hand, and even though he protested in silence, he allowed me to grasp his fingers. His palm was damp, his hand trembling though I wasn't sure if it was in concern for Alex or for himself.

No, that isn't true. I was quite certain he was afraid for Alex, as Erik had never once cared for his own well-being, at least not when it came to a situation such as this. He was more than willing to die over Alex, though I doubted he considered what would become of his son if he lost his life.

We picked at our food in silence for a while and the tension increased.

"He would have the world," he said under his breath.

I looked at him and knew he had spoken some concern aloud.

"He has the world," I replied.

"No, he doesn't. If he went with her he would have the world. He would see everything. Here…I can't give him anything."

He looked past me and I turned to see what had caught his attention. I frowned when I saw him studying his reflection in the dining room mirror and wondered how in the world he could think his son felt any sense of disappointment or remorse in him.

When I looked at him again, I saw defeat in his eyes. There were moments when he spoke of music and his operas that he presented himself as arrogant, but there were just as many times as when he was lost. I pushed my chair back, stood, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Eyes closed, I kissed his right cheek and felt him lean into me.

"Why do you say such things?"

His reply came wordless yet still harsh as he grabbed my hand and placed it against his cheek. Time and again he had tried to push me away, yet I never faltered. I hoped one day he would realize I saw more in him than a scar from his birth.

"Come upstairs with me," I whispered softly as I tugged on his arm and forced him to stand. "There's something you need to see."

He followed me upstairs and sat on the bed while I rummaged through my dresser. While he'd been in the water closet, I had sneaked into the guest room and stolen back my journal, suspecting it was far too much temptation for him.

When I faced him, he immediately straightened and I knew precisely what he expected. His eyes widened when he saw the book cover and realization set in.

"What are you doing?"

"The 5th of June, 1885," I read as I took a seat beside him. "Alexandre came over today and spent an hour telling me about how he and his father read an entire book about the Orient. Alexandre said 'The Orient does not interest me but Father says it is fascinating. I much prefer Egyptian civilization'. He is a little parrot of his father even at the age of five. The child could talk for hours about Erik. I wish Lisette could do the same. She still wakes up screaming at night thinking she hears her father pounding on the walls."

I paused, looked up at him, and saw him nod. "The 22nd of July, 1885. Alexandre brought a sketch book over to show Lisette. The two of them spent hours drawing pictures on the blank pages. Erik had told me a week ago that he wanted Alex to start drawing and I can see why. He's very talented. Alex was beside himself when he showed me his new treasure. His initials were on the cover."

I placed my finger on the edge of the page and looked at him again. "How many more do you want me to read? There's at least a dozen more before the end of that year alone."

"What does it matter?"

"Not once have I ever heard him mention his birth mother. Not even once, Erik, but he could talk about you forever." He started to shake his head, but I stood before him and placed my finger on his chin. "You are everything to him whether you realize it or not."

There was nothing I could say to convince him, though I wanted desperately to try. "Maybe if she knew how he felt she would change her mind, find some—"

"Sympathy? Compassion? Never."

He was not going to make this simple. I sighed in disgust. "Something in common with you as a parent. Surely she will see not only how much you love Alex but how he feels for you as well."

He scoffed at my words.

"If she cares for him at all she'll see this is a selfish endeavor."

"Christine gets what she wants; the stage, the fans, a family. This will be no different. I meant nothing to her ten years ago. I will mean nothing to her tomorrow."

I glanced through the pages, catching bits of sentences here and there. Our relationship, faulted as it was, had been recorded within the journal. My memories of him were fond, never once a tumultuous, angry path. He was accustomed to being Christine's slave, of giving her what she desired and never being wanted or praised. She considered him a monster, a loathsome beast who hunted her though I suspected she had done everything in her power to chain him and drag him behind her, hoping for a mere scrap of her affection.

So many times I had written his name in that book and never once expected to gain from our encounters, aside from my lecherous, womanly ways.

_Erik is so amusing. Erik simply makes me laugh like a school girl. When Erik speaks, my heart stutters. This man intoxicates me deeper than the most potent wine. _Perhaps it didn't matter if my words were foolish; they had been written with sincerity and adoration. I had written the truth, and I wanted him to know how I felt for him.

Taking a deep breath, I rubbed my hand along his shoulder, kissed his ear, and stood. "I'll be up in a moment." I tapped the open page and handed him the book. "Here. October the 22nd. Since it interests you so much. You do know what day that was, don't you?"

He stammered for words, but I simply smiled and walked out.

I closed the door, walked to the end of the hallway, and slumped onto the floor. Fear overtook me as I wondered what would transpire the following day. I could barely breathe as I thought of that horrible, callous woman taking Alexandre in spite. I worried about the victome, the coward that he was, taking Erik by surprise and killing him or hurting Alex. I assumed he wouldn't act alone, which left the drunken fool the option of arriving with several friends or the gendarmes. Both were feasible.

Emotionally I was far beyond tears. I sat blankly and imagined Erik escorted to prison, dragged away with his hands cuffed behind his back. I thought of him being sentenced to death, of the humiliation of being unmasked in a courtroom and tried for stealing the child he had fathered. Christine would twist the truth and in the end, she would kill both father and son. Once again she would take from him, bleed him until absolutely nothing remained.

They would never see one another again. Perhaps he wouldn't know the details now, but eventually Alex would learn of his father's fate. He would be devastated to know his father was executed or, as a lesser punishment, sentenced to hard labor. I wasn't sure how I could survive if he were executed. I didn't know what I would do without him if he were taken away for years.

I took the pins out of my hair with trembling hands and forced myself to stand. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and willed myself to think the situation over differently. As long as I was at his side, he could calmly meet with the victome and victomess. Perhaps if I stayed beside him he would remember this was not just his past, but his future as well.

Once I stopped shaking, I walked downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed what I had made for desert, then trudged up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. I found him sitting with the closed book in his hands. He didn't look at me.

"Well?"

"Crumpets."

I chuckled to myself and removed my necklace. My hands still shook and I cursed myself, willing my body to remain strong while I felt my mind unraveling.

With my back to him, I placed the plate on the dresser top and began tossing my hair pins into a shallow bowl. Just as I had hoped, he had relived our first night together. In its own way I thought it was romantic.

"Why do you put up with me?" he asked as he twisted around to watch me.

I grinned, thinking there was no easy answer. "I quite obviously suffer from delirium."

"You were twenty-two when you became a widow. Your brothers could have found you someone."

He had no idea how my brother Max had attempted to find me another husband. We hadn't spoken in years—even when I had been married to Louis, and his betrayal stung. He hadn't bothered to contact me until recently when our cousin apparently divulged more information than he had intended.

"A pox on my brother. He would have found me another man like Louis and that was the last thing I wanted."

"Instead you pursued a phantom."

I watched him a moment, weighing his words. There was a certain belligerence to his tone as though he wanted to know for certain if I understood who he was—or who he had been. He was entirely too edgy, too suspicious for my liking.

"Instead I pursued what I wanted."

"A violin player?" he asked dryly.

"A sweet melody," I countered. He would not dampen my romantic heart with his cynical words. "The sweetest, most passionate sound I had ever heard in the world. I wanted to know where it came from."

"It came from a shadow in a window," he muttered.

I put my hands on my hips, accepting his challenge. "It was written and performed by a neighbor I hadn't yet met." I shrugged. "Quite frankly, I thought he was a genius."

He grunted. "From an unknown man," he said bitterly.

"By a man I didn't yet know."

"But you did. You said so yourself." he lifted the book and shook it at me as though somehow this would change me forever. Perhaps he thought I would run screaming from the room, though I wanted to tell him I had invested too much time and baking to leave him now. "You had seen the article. You _knew_."

"I put little faith in the newspaper." I closed the dresser drawer and shook my head at him. If only he had known at the time that the critic he hated more than anyone else in the world was my eccentric uncle, he would have agreed the newspaper was filed with pure nonsense.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because you didn't have red eyes and smell like a corpse."

He scowled.

"What would you have me say?"

"I would have you say you knew."

"Fine. I know. And do you want to know something? You're not the man in the newspaper."

He blinked at me, his expression softening just enough where I knew he listened to me.

"That's all that matters." I shook my head in dismay.

"Is that so?"

I could hardly believe he still wanted to argue, though that was him down to the core. It could be pouring down rain and that man had so much fight in him he would say it was a clear blue sky simply for the purpose of argument. His passion drew me in. Lord knows why I fell for it every time.

"We could argue all night and get nowhere, Erik. Is that what you want?"

"There are better things to do all night," he admitted.

He was very fortunate I had my hands occupied with holding a dish. I looked him in the eye and smiled. "Better things indeed, but none of which you will be doing tonight, Monsieur."

His expression changed, and judging by his sincere smile I hoped he would find some peace the remainder of the night. He took a crumpet from the plate and took a bite. "Tell me this. Did I do something right or did you do something wrong?"

I kissed his lips and smiled playfully. Despite wanting him to rest comfortably, I wanted to leave him aching as I did. "December the 29th," I said seductively.

The twinkle in his eye assured me he remembered we had celebrated together two days before the start of the New Year. Behind his smile, however, I saw him grimace and wondered if the pain returned now that he wasn't on edge over his son.

"Stay here. I should clean the stitches for you again."

"Wouldn't you rather reenact December the 29th?"

I turned my head to the side. "You are still in a great deal of trouble."

"For what?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "For what indeed."

All of my supplies were downstairs. I left him in the bedroom and walked down the stairs to the guest room where he had taken up residence. It had only been a few days, but already I was accustomed to the routine.

The past four days of my life had been spent caring for him and it had started by traveling in the middle of the night to find him in an alley. Those first moments still ached within me, the sight of him so terribly broken. It was then that his foolish pursuit seemed real, seemed as though it could destroy what we had together.

I gathered my supplies and thought about how he had demanded I leave him alone, how he'd fought me as though he wanted to die face-down in an alley rather than suffer the inconvenience of help. He had never apologized for his words or actions.

It angered me that he had stood on the cusp of life and death and he'd never acknowledged those who cared for him. I wondered if he truly was such an inconsiderate man or if the thought had never crossed his mind.

Perhaps he didn't recognize kindness or thought of it as a lack of cruelty instead. He would die—which now seemed like a horrible reality—without ever knowing how deeply Alex cared for him and how much I wanted to help him. All of our time together, and he was too foolish to realize how much I loved him, how I wanted my feelings returned.

I loved him more than I had ever realized, yet at the same time I wanted to hate him. He would haunt me, not as the Phantom, but as a man who had never realized his full potential in my heart. I had been honest with him, yet he was far too blind to see me.

"You gave me the book. I thought I was forgiven," he said the moment I walked through the door. By the way he spoke, I assumed he had sat there waiting for me to enter so he could speak.

It took a moment for me to register his words. "Forgiven? No." I forced a laugh. "Far from it."

He stood and put his arms around me, his hands at the small of my back. "I could apologize," he said as he kissed my throat. Once I pulled away, he immediately released me.

"Or you could die of gangrene and stupidity. Now sit." I pushed on his shoulders until he was sitting again. My fingers grazed along his chest, though my mind was elsewhere. "Once your stitches are looked at….we'll see."

But there would be no emotion on my part aside from concern for him. Perhaps before intimate encounters lacked emotion, but I wouldn't tolerate laying with him simply for physical gratification.

I knew when he stared at me that he sensed my feelings. He grabbed my wrist before I cleaned his wounds, and for a long moment he studied my face. At last he seemed to notice someone else in the world.

I didn't want him to see the concern in my eyes. I wanted to be strong for him, to give him a reason to curb his temper and fight like a civilized man once he met with the victome and his wife. He had nothing else; he needed to control himself for his son. And for me. I wanted him to find reasons to fight for me.

"Erik—"

"Look at me," he whispered.

I couldn't look at him. Emotion sprang up, and just when I thought the last of my tears had flowed, I felt hot, wet drops roll down my cheeks and knew there was no control.

I was sad for him and angry for myself. I wished we had met years ago, before the nonsense that weighed down upon him, upon both of us. So many of our wounds would not have existed, and I wondered if, in different places in our lives, we would have found one another.

"Please don't cry," he ignorantly requested.

My sobs came harder and I felt as though I could no longer breathe.

I could no longer hold back, and within his arms, I broke down completely.


	44. What Have I Been to You all These Years?

The next few chapters were so emotionally draining to write. Seeing AHTW from Julia's point of view was so much harder than Erik's but I really enjoyed going through the story from her POV. Plus, having a beta reader make some great suggestions has made this just about one of my favorite chapters to write!

Also, if you're not reading Of Persia, there are 9 chapters up and these stories do all tie in together. I'm very excited about Persia Era Erik Kire—which is difficult to say. Thank you for the reviews too!

Julia44

"Please, please don't cry," Erik said.

It was a plainly spoken phrase, no begging or pleading on his part. He merely made a request, and though it may not have been malicious, his words made me sob harder.

Through my clouded eyes I saw him shudder, his gaze turned watery as he frowned at me.

He touched my arm briefly before pulling away. His hand formed a loose fist, which he brought to his lips.

"Julia, please don't cry," he said, this time louder.

I wondered how he could strike such passion within me, yet he had no idea how to quell the hurt inside. If he had a blue print or a written guide to explain the inner workings of my heart, he would have mastered comfort.

Slowly I turned away from him, sinking from the edge of the bed to the rug. I buried my face in my hands, rubbed my eyes with the coverlet and shielded my expression.

He sank to his knees beside me and placed his hands firmly on my shoulders. I took a shuddering breath and hoped he would say something poetic, something kind and sweet.

"You can barely breathe," he pointed out.

I pushed his hands away and hiccupped a reply, telling him I could damned well breathe.

He climbed to his feet and I could hear him pace across the room, no doubt weighing his options. I fully expected he would leave the room and wait for the situation to remedy itself.

I wondered if he had ever comforted anyone in a time of sorrow and assumed no one had ever attempted to calm the storm within him. He bled out his emotions in songs, poured his life into his music and saved his anger for sharp looks or words muttered under his breath. I knew he cared greatly for his son, but aside from Alex, I doubted anyone else had ever seen the true, tender man beneath the gruff, arrogant exterior.

He had no experience in this type of love. He had never shared himself in this manner and I wasn't sure he ever would.

"Julia, please tell me what to do," he said softly.

"You don't understand, do you?" I managed to squeak out in between my sobs.

"I haven't any idea," he admitted. "Please don't cry."

I pulled myself off the floor and rubbed my eyes. "How many days have you been here now?"

He hesitated. "Six."

"Four. But it honestly feels like six."

"If you wanted me to leave you should have said something."

That was all he needed to say to break the dam all over again and send me into hysterics. I wanted him there with me in ways he simply couldn't comprehend and it broke my heart, knowing physically we had joined, but emotionally he was a stranger. The distance ripped through me. I wanted him to say he cared for me, that he loved me and would apologize for his foolish endeavors and his intangible conquest.

"Julie—"

I looked at him sharply and he immediately fell silent. He had only called me Julie a handful of times and he was the only person who had ever made my name sound playful, almost childish. He did it once when he caught me literally by surprise in the dining room. I hadn't heard him come in and he had wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck. He sighed my name and told me he had sold a piece of music he had never expected to sell.

This, however, was not the time for casual musings.

"Why don't you ever apologize? Are you that ungrateful? Are you that inconsiderate?" I yelled, pounding on the floor for emphasis. It was only then that I realized I had pathetically collapsed on the rug. There were strands of dog fur caught in the threads.

He bowed his head. "May I tell you now or have I lost my opportunity to do so?"

When I said nothing, he joined me on the floor and waited until I caught my breath.

"I've never had to apologize to anyone," he whispered. He reached for me again, and just when I wanted to feel the warmth of his touch, he pulled back and rested his hand against his chest. "I don't know what to do."

_Clearly_, I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't catch my breath. Aggravated, I turned away from him, wanting him to put in the effort to win me over. I had given him too much freely.

His clothing rustled and I knew he had inched closer. "The list is fairly long," he said, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Would you be so kind as to narrow down exactly what I'm apologizing for?"

I made ever attempt to choke back tears. He would receive no hints from me.

I felt his hot breaths on the back of my neck and knew he'd moved behind me, mirroring my stance. He placed his hand on my stomach and his chin on my shoulder.

"I would not try to hurt you. Not ever. As much as I would rather not see you cry for my own selfishness if you…"

_Cease your blubbering, _I expected him to say, or _continue with this feminine nonsesence._ I wanted to move away, but doing so would have meant crawling beneath the bed and I assumed he would foolishly follow.

"Julia, my God, please look at me. I would rather have you rip out my stitches than keep your back to me," he grumbled in frustration.

Funny, I thought, how a man who had no use for frivolous conversation couldn't tolerate my silence.

"Please," he whispered in my ear. "Please don't turn from me."

I reached down and wrapped my hand over his, wondering if I should move him away or allow him his feeble attempt at emotional support.

"You cannot bring yourself to say it, can you?" I whispered.

He would spend a lifetime reviewing his options and hope he composed the best phrase. I could see the hesitation in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. There was as much sincerity in his words as he would have mustered reading from a script.

It was my turn to consider his words and I heard as well as felt his breaths turn harder.

"For what?" I asked.

"How the hell would I know?" he said through his teeth.

I started to sit up, but his hand locked around me.

"For everything," he blurted out. "Does that cover it all? Birth, I'm sorry for surviving birth. I apologize for being a healthy child, for…for making it out of Persia alive…the opera house…"

I groaned in utter frustration. How quickly he buried my anger and frustration and resurrected his own. "You make it about yourself. Don't you dare try to twist this around you deceptive, ignorant, selfish fool."

"I'm sorry I don't know how to do anything at all!" he shouted.

He released me, scrambled to his feet and muttered curses under his breath. The floor boards creaked beneath his weight as he paced back and forth, then opened the bedroom door and slammed it shut.

I held my breath and waited to hear him stomp down the stairs and return home. He was well enough to care for himself, I suspected. Once he left, I wasn't sure he'd ever return.

Eyes closed, I exhaled hard. The anticipation of him walking away from me became a sudden, harsh reality. His footsteps faded and I sucked in a ragged breath, wanting to forget all of the years I had spent with him.

He was correct, of course: he knew nothing at all, at least when it came to being half of a relationship. I blamed myself for allowing him nights in my company. I wondered why we had never taken an evening walk through the city and enjoyed music at the local cafés or a walk through the park.

And now, after all of our time spent together, he had given up on me.

"What in the hell do you want me to tell you?" he yelled as he stormed back inside the room. His voice startled me, and when I looked up, he stood over me.

"I told you I was sorry and I don't know what else to even say because I don't know what I did. Specifically, I mean. I already know damned well that the list is longer than St. Peter's list of souls. You have a thousand reasons to hate me. Tell me where to start and I will apologize to you. Just…"

When he stopped speaking, I turned my head to the side. From the edge of my teary vision I could see him towering over me, his fists balled in his hair. He was beside himself, and despite being frustrated, I saw a man who cared at last.

"Just tell me what I need to do for you to speak to me still. Please. My God, Julia, please tell me."

I sat up and wiped my tears away. His raw emotions knifed through me and at last I conceded. "My journal."

"I'm sorry I looked." He crossed his arms and turned away from me. "I didn't even read very much of it before you found me."

His tone brimmed with anger, though I wasn't sure if it was directed at me.

"I apologize for being difficult," he said. "But you know how I am."

I sighed in disgust. Clearly he couldn't suffer an actual apology for his thoughtlessness. "Forget it, Erik. Go downstairs and go to bed."

"No. I'm going to apologize to you," he said. To my surprise, he whipped around and knelt before me, his eyes filled with determination. "What else? Let's have it right now."

He wanted the mechanical aspects of an apology, as though there was just a series he needed to follow in order for him to be forgiven. His rational ways made me shake my head. "This isn't how it works. Just go, Erik. Just leave me alone and I'll see you in the morning."

"No, no I'm not going to leave you crying on the floor." He hauled me off the rug as though I were a doll and sat me on the bed. The springs creaked beneath me and I let out a shriek of surprise when I practically bounced.

"Don't be angry with me," he said sternly. "Tell me what I have to do so that you aren't angry with me."

"I'm not angry I'm upset."

His hardened expression faltered, his lips twitching. "What's the difference?"

I laid back and stared at the ceiling. It seemed so simple, and yet he made it complex.

"Do you even realize how many times you've hurt my feelings over the last four days? For God's sake the first night you were here you told me that you hated me when I was trying to help you. Did I say anything to you? No, not at all because you were in so much pain I couldn't bear to put you in more."

His lips parted in horror. "I would never say that to you. Not ever."

"Then who were you talking to?"

"I don't know; to God, to myself, to anyone at all but not to you, Julia."

"You'll be struck down dead for saying something like that," I warned. I could tell by his tone that he was sincere and that perhaps, in a moment of unbearable agony, he had said much he regretted. Perhaps he didn't realize what he'd said at all. "For one man you say so many hurtful things."

He looked at me and nodded, though he didn't speak.

"You being here last night and this morning was like being married again."

His eyes widened, his chin tilted up. "Is that slander or a compliment?"

I turned onto my side and considered his question. "You reminded me of the pleasant parts of being married." The parts that made me shiver far outweighed the good memories, though Louis could be civil, even charming when he desired. The days he spent time reading or out for walks with me rather than public houses and with his friends were distant, passing thoughts. There had been nights when he would simply fall asleep beside me, no words exchanged. Those were the times I wanted to believe I could forgive him when in truth, there was far too much to ever truly release.

"Falling asleep beside you was…comforting. And it had nothing to do with sex." It was his presence, the heat of his body, the musk of his flesh. Something as small as his even breaths, the way he would often find my hand and lace his fingers with mine, made me fall deeply in love with him.

Erik nodded. "You were beautiful in the morning," he said.

I sighed. Flattery would not earn him forgiveness...at least not yet. Still, my toes curled at his words and I felt heat rise along the back of my neck. Flattery, I suppose, got him further than I had expected.

"Why do you have to go and do something so…so abhorrently typical?" I asked. "How can you be so inconsiderate?"

"I really don't know."

"Well what do you know?"

"I know that when you cry it's the most horrific sound in the world. I never want to hear it ever again."

I could hardly believe his choice of words, which only proved my point. I should have expected this from him.

Sitting up, I dried my eyes. "You're so uncouth," I said. There were far more harsh words brewing in my mind, but I was exhausted. "For such an intelligent man you certainly haven't a clue about anything a book cannot teach you."

"No, I suppose I don't."

I hated that he agreed with me. "Oh, you in the last four days have been more exhausting than four years with both Lisette and Louis to take care of. You're slowly sucking the life out of me, Erik, you're simply draining me."

He studied me for a long moment. "There's more," he groaned quietly. He frowned, anticipating my words.

There was a great deal more. "When you told me about the gendarmes I thought my heart would stop. I don't want anything to happen to you or to Alex."

"Nothing will happen to Alex," he assured me. "He'll be well cared for no matter what."

My throat tightened. "And you?"

Color drained from his face and neck and he frowned. He lowered his gaze, his hand loosely grasping mine. I dreaded what he would say to me.

"I don't yet know," he said slowly. He was a liar. He knew what would happen if it came down to the police being called to their meeting. "But you needn't worry about me. I'll have Madeline give you part of my funds—"

His words released anger instead of tears. It was then that I understood why he truly couldn't apologize to me; he had no remorse. He would meet death head-on, accept whatever punishment came to him. I suspected he had already drawn up plans for Madame Giry to carry out once he was sentenced to death.

In place of fear, he was practical; horribly, methodically prepared to die. And yet, on what could have very well been his last night, he sat across from me calm, not the least bit concerned for his own life.

"I don't want your money," I said between my teeth. "I've never wanted your money."

"You've been good to me. You deserve something…a reward."

"Reward?" I gasped.

He turned away from me and I knew his intentions. He didn't want me to see the scars; the wounds I had touched with my bare hands, had kissed, even. He intended to reward my bravery.

"Yes," he said weakly. "Of course."

"Don't," I warned. "Don't you dare say that."

"I would not leave you alone," he said, his tone drawn out and measured precisely. He had no idea how alone he made me feel, how worthless of a person a sum of money made my life seem. "You are…compensated."

"Like a whore?"

His back straightened and he inhaled sharply. "No," he said, his voice tinged with anger. "Never."

"Then what? What am I then? A slave to you? Released from my…my duties?"

"Julia," he said. "I want you to have something."

"Look at me," I said through my teeth. "If you want to insult me, to lessen everything I feel, everything I've always felt for you, then have the courage to look me in the eye."

Very slowly he turned his face and looked at me from over his shoulder. He tried desperately to hold to his anger, but in his gaze there was a lifetime of remorse. My lip trembled when I looked at him, when I saw what he was willing to face alone.

"This is my apology," he said softly.

"Erik," I said under my breath. "_We_ deserve something after all of these years. I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you."

I threw my arms around him and held him as tightly as I could, afraid each passing moment led to his final hour. I ran my fingers through his hair, cupped his cheek in my hand and buried my face against his shoulder. It shouldn't have come to this.

"Don't go there to die," I pleaded. He clutched my arm, his body heaving with each breath.

Despite my frantic state, I still heard the knock at the door. I blinked, held my breath, and heard it again. We both froze.

"The boy," Erik growled.

I stood first and dried my eyes. "Stay here," I warned, though I knew my words were useless. My only hope was that he stayed far enough back that if the authorities came pounding at my door, he would have time to escape.

I walked slowly toward the front door. Through the decorated glass I saw a single shadow and recognized it was a woman. If it was Christine de Chagny, she would regret stepping foot on my porch.

Once I opened the door, I gawked at Madame Giry. She was soaked to the bone, her bonnet and face drenched, her dress heavy and dripping from the rain.

"Where is your umbrella?" Erik asked. He stood no more than ten paces behind me. I saw him there in the hall with my good silver candlestick in his right hand.

Once Madame saw him, she brushed past me and grabbed Erik by the left hand. "Alex returned here."

"What?" Erik and I asked together.

"He had to come here," Madeline murmured, her tone urgent. "He's not at home. He must be here."

Erik and I exchanged looks. My stomach twisted and we began frantically running through the house, all three of us shouting his name. Everyone in the neighborhood was liable to hear us yelling in the middle of the night and I knew as I took the stairs to Lissy's room that our search was in vain.

My chest became tight, filled with worry as I searched for Erik and found the light on in the guest room. I came to a sliding stop in the doorway and clutched the frame.

Immediately I froze as he knelt by the bedside and clutched something to his chest. He moaned softly, his shoulders trembling.

"My God," I whispered. "What is it?"

It wasn't until I stood at his side that I saw the envelope pressed to his chest.


	45. Alex's Disappearance

And here we go, final stop before Crazy Chrissy returns

Julia45

The candlestick fell from Erik's grasp. He fumbled with the envelope, and in his haste, ripped through the contents inside. With a trembling hand he wiped his face and inhaled sharply.

"Is he—" I paused, knowing the answer.

Madame Giry had left the house in a hurry, saying something about worrying for Meg's health and safety. Before she left I had managed to ask her where Lisette was, fearing the two of them had conspired to take matters into their own small hands. I had doubted Lissy would do something so rash, but swept up in the moment, she was far too much like me. Alex was clearly his father's son.

"I spoke with Madame and she said Lisette didn't know where he went. She thought he had gone into the kitchen for more tea but he never came back."

From what Madame had said, they were playing games late into the night. Alex must have been looking for a way to sneak out without being seen or heard. He had picked a miserable night to wander away.

"He's gone to her," Erik said, his voice so weak I barely heard him.

I leaned over him, my hands on his shoulders to see what Alex had left behind.

_'I'm sorry'. _

There was no indication he had left to meet with his mother, or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps he had decided to run away altogether as he knew tomorrow would be Christine's chance to take him back.

Though Alex hadn't said much, I gathered from his expression and bitten off words that he wanted nothing to do with her.

From his perspective I knew why, as she had been absent from his life. She had never been his mother, not in the sense all children deserved. He was not the type of child to seek her out, especially after all that had transpired. Perhaps Erik had piqued his son's curiosity, but once Alex had discovered him left for dead, the boy needed nothing more from her.

Still, I worried for him. The vicomtess had snake-charmed Erik into a false life and I had no doubt she would attempt the same with Alex. I just didn't know what madness possessed her.

"I honestly don't think he would go to her," I said.

"Stolen," Erik snapped.

I shook my head. "Out of your house?" It wasn't feasible.

There was a tap on the guest room door, and for a fraction of a heartbeat I expected to see Alex.

"Monsieur."

Madame Giry's voice startled me, as I hadn't realized she'd returned. It made me wonder if someone else could pass in and out of the house unnoticed.

Erik and I both turned and saw her standing in the doorway. She clutched the doorframe with both hands in a white-knuckle grasp.

"Sit down before you faint," Erik demanded. He recovered his senses faster than I had expected and helped her into a chair. "Where were they playing?"

She looked up at last. "In the library, Monsieur," she replied blankly. She wrung her hands and apologized.

"What were they doing?"

Madame shook her head. "Reading, I think. They were being very quiet so I didn't disturb them. Monsieur Lowry said they had been playing games."

"Where were you?"

"The kitchen."

"Doing what?"

Her eyes widened and she shrugged. "Nothing. Just reading the paper."

"And the study?"

Madame placed her hand over her heart. "The door was shut."

"What about Charles and Meg?"

"Monsieur, I assure you none of us saw him."

Erik started to protest, but quelled his anger and shook his head.

"All I know is that I was in the kitchen with Meg and Charles was in his room writing letters," Madame said weakly.

I expected Erik to berate them for leaving the children alone, but he merely sighed.

"Did he go upstairs?" he asked suddenly.

"Monsieur, I don't know. Lisette came to the kitchen to look for him. I went to his bedroom. That was the first place I looked. We checked everywhere for him—"

He stood abruptly, stormed toward the dresser, and fit his hairpiece into place. From where I sat on the bed I noticed a distinct change in him. He appeared taller, more imposing. The look in his eyes had hardened.

"Where are you going?" I asked. My gut twisted.

"The hotel first," he said.

"What do you mean first? Where else are you going?" I asked, attempting to shake the illusion from my mind. When he didn't answer, I leaned forward. Let me go with you," I offered.

"Absolutely not," he replied from the hall. He took the stairs two at a time and I followed him into the bedroom.

"You can't just walk up to the hotel—"

"The hell I can't. If they have him I will kill them both. Where is the mask?"

I opened the dresser drawer and handed it to him without question. "You can't just…kill him. It isn't right."

"That's all a matter of perception," he muttered.

He was correct, as it was a matter of perception. He had killed Louis, and from my perception, as horrible an act as it was, it felt as though a vice had loosened and I could once again breathe. My daughter no longer feared heavy footsteps down the hall or withdrew when she heard men singing and carrying on as they left the public houses streets away.

I thought of it more as Erik saving us rather than killing someone. This time, however, I couldn't justify him storming into a hotel room and murdering a man and his wife because his son had run away. He was not innocent in this game.

He turned toward me, masked once more, and the sight of him sent a chill through me. He resonated unspeakable strength, and when I looked at him, I saw a myth. This was the man who had haunted a theater.

He strode past me without offering a reply, his every move as deft as a cat. His confidence was belied by a slight limp and his bunched shoulders and I knew, beneath the mask and hairpiece, was a man still not quite himself.

Rage would fuel him, but exhaustion would undo him.

"Erik, you're not thinking," I warned. I caught him by the back of the collar and he pried me away. He was determined to leave without me and I was more than willing to hold fast to his leg and be dragged down the street.

"You will stay here," he ordered.

He shoved me away and stormed toward the bedroom door, which he slammed shut. Madeline shrieked when she apparently saw him descend.

"You can't do this," Madeline pleaded. "Not alone."

I bolted into the hall and nearly fell down the stairs.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" I screamed like a woman gone mad. "Don't you dare leave me, Erik, don't you dare. For God's sake, I love you and so does your son. If you love us too, you'll stop."

With his hand extended toward the front door, he froze. Madame Giry stood beside me and suddenly grabbed my arm. Her action startled me, though in our moment of mutual fear concerning not only Erik but Alex, both of us clung to one another and lingered on my desperate words.

"You're safer here," he reasoned, his head bowed. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Erik—"

"Damn it, Julia, I told you no."

Madame, to my surprise, stepped forward. "Erik, don't yell at her. We're trying to help you."

He gave an exaggerated sigh.

"Someone should go with you, otherwise you'll be outnumbered," I said.

I hoped his current state would be enough of a reminder.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "What good would you do me? You're not going to even the odds by being there. If anything you'll make it worse because I'll have to defend you as well."

I squared my shoulders. He would not leave my house alone. "If Alex is in there and you go to their hotel ranting and raving, they'll call security and have you taken away. But if you go there and are civil, you stand a better chance of taking him back."

Finally he nodded and turned away. I grabbed our cloaks and he took his in silence. His hand brushed against mine, and despite the hardened look in his eyes and the stark white, expressionless mask, he still offered the slightest smile. Brief as it was, I still noticed and hoped it would be enough to save him.

He gently squeezed my shoulder before he walked out the door with me a step behind.

There were no words exchanged between us, which was well enough considering I struggled to keep up with his pace. If he'd had two good legs, he would have left me a street behind, though the farther we traveled, the more noticeable his limp.

I had no doubt the vicomte would notice it as well—and most likely use it to his advantage.

"A beautiful Punjab lasso around his miserable neck," Erik muttered.

"What?"

He turned to look at me, his eyes wide as he realized he'd spoken aloud. "What?"

"You said something about a Punjab lasso."

It was not the first instance he had mentioned it before. Alex had also made reference to it in passing during his brief obsession with Persia, but he told me his father wanted him 'staying away from that hellish desert', and that was the end of his studies.

Hearing that term used again, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what it was or how he intended to use it.

Erik proceeded down the street, his limp increasingly noticeable. "I'd like to strangle him," he replied. "Until his eyes pop out of his damned head."

"Erik," I warned. His pace had quickened, ignited by his anger.

He glanced back and finally slowed down enough for me to catch up to him."If anything—and I mean _anything_—has happened to Alex I will kill him without a second thought."

"Forgive me for saying this but why would he hurt a child that may be his own?"

He came to an unexpected stop and when he looked at me, the visible side of his face had twisted into a scowl. It had angered him, but at least it had paused him for a moment. I wanted him to regroup, to recover his senses and approach the de Chagnys with a clear mind. We were within sight of the hotel and I knew there was no turning back. Dread filled me, a horrible, sinking feeling in my belly that we were approaching something far worse than I had ever imagined.

"He knows Alex doesn't belong to him. He called him a bastard. He knows damn well that isn't his son."

Frustrated, he turned away and I grabbed him by the shoulder. "We will find him," I said gently.

He placed his hand over mine but didn't reply.

There was no turning back.


	46. Confliction and Trust

Julia46

We stood side by side across the street from the beautifully kept hotel. Rain fell in sheets, and the soft glow peering through the double doors coaxed us closer, despite what waited inside.

I imagined Alexandre jogging through the puddles and down alleys, a lost child in the night. The streets of Paris were no place for a boy his age to travel alone, and I hated to think of him anywhere without his family. There were dangers lurking in the city that had nothing to do with his birth mother.

Erik released a shuddering breath and I knew he was in a great deal of pain. The illusion faltered, and before he had a chance to make his entrance he'd grown weary. I knew, however, he'd never admit it.

"Across the street, then?" I asked.

He gave a single nod and forced himself forward. Through the drizzle I noticed there was a coach station around the drive, which we had to pass before entering the hotel.

"Why don't you stay here and I'll speak with the man at the front desk?" I suggested as I pointed toward it. My teeth chattered with every word. "Sit down a moment."

"We don't have time," he argued.

"Only a moment," I said softly.

He nearly collapsed onto the bench, but he scowled as though he didn't need a moment of rest. I could tell by the way his chest heaved that his anger brewed.

"He could be further away with each minute, Julia," he seethed.

"He's a smart boy," I replied. "He's his father's son."

Sadness filled his gaze. "That's why he disappeared."

"We'll find him," I promised. "I'll be back in a moment."

"You are not going in there without me." He groaned as he stood and held onto the wooden doorway. His face contorted with a grimace and he cursed, making no attempt to lower his voice.

I crossed my arms and shook my head. "You are in no condition to storm in there," I said. "You, with your mask and your temper, cannot just walk in and expect to reach their suite without some sort of altercation."

"So?"

He slid his fingers under his mask and exhaled through his teeth. Despite the dark, I could still see the blood on his fingers when he pulled his hand away. If anyone in the lobby saw him, they'd most likely ask him to leave at once.

"So you'll never reach their room," I explained. "If I go in first and have a word with the clerk, you stand a much better chance of seeing the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny and finding out about Alex." I took a step forward and placed my fingers beneath his chin. He reluctantly lifted his face, which gave me a moment to examine him in the meager light. "Your forehead is bleeding again. Must you wear that thing?"

"Yes." He adjusted his hairpiece, though there was nothing he could do to keep the band from pressing into the stitches. I couldn't imagine how uncomfortable it must have felt.

Even if he did succeed in reaching their room, I thought he was liable to bleed to death. I pulled out my handkerchief and gently blotted his forehead, which earned me a look of pure disgust.

"Why?" I asked as I held the cloth to it and watched him pinch his eyes closed. "Because you like the torment? You enjoy the pain it brings pressing into your stitches?"

His right eye slit open and he glared at me. I had half the mind to tell him sewing him up again wouldn't be possible as the last time his flesh was so fragile it was like stitching up wet newspaper.

"For fear," he answered through his teeth.

I sighed and shook my head. "You'll pass out," I said quietly.

"They remember me as a sniveling, weak fool in the end. They remember me unmasked." He'd become agitated quickly, but when I attempted to place my hand on his shoulder, he brushed me away. "I have no doubt that when the boy closes his eyes at night, his fears return." He ran his finger along the edge of the mask, and the power in his voice was filled with determination. "He sees this and he knows that if I so choose he will be strung up by the neck. He will not have an advantage again."

I pursed my lips. "You would kill?"

"Yes," he said firmly.

"You would take a man's life before your son's eyes?" I asked. "And how do you intend to explain what he sees?"

I could tell he knew I was correct, but God forbid he ever admit it. He scowled at me, his shoulders slumped.

"I won't kill him." He sighed in disgust, like a child who had been told his favorite game had been thrown away. "As long as Alex is unharmed."

I sat beside him, knowing I should head inside, but afraid of what would happen if I did. I could just picture him climbing the trellis to their room and falling to his death. "Do you honestly think Alex would come here?"

"I'm not sure."

His tone lacked conviction and he drew his gaze from mine. I closed my eyes and took a breath, unsure of what to say.

"Why did you turn from me?"

He didn't answer, but he turned toward me, his eyes hardened and expressionless. As we sat just outside of the hotel, I wasn't sure leaving peacefully would be an option.

"You're coming here for revenge, aren't you?" I dared to look at him again. More than anything, I feared a lack of emotion. "Erik," I said sternly.

He took the cloth from me and turned away.

"Where is he then?" I whispered.

"If he isn't here, he's safe."

His cryptic words worried me. "Then why are we here? If you don't think he's here…"

"I can't take that chance. Look at what he did to me," he growled. Terror filled his eyes, and I wasn't sure what frightened me more—the ruse of his confidence or the reality of what he feared. "Tell me if you think for a second that he wouldn't do the same to Alexandre, to the son conceived out of wedlock—to my child. If I'm wrong, if Alex is here, he's dead."

His words shocked me. I knew little of Raoul de Chagny, but the man I had seen in the newspaper hardly appeared ruthless. He had soft features and a kind smile. Of course, for all of the stories told, Erik was no monster to me.

"You honestly believe he would kill another man's son?"

"Anger can evoke anything," he murmured as he forced himself to stand.

I stood beside him. "Erik, even you wouldn't kill a child. You—"

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable, almost blank. When I stopped speaking, he lifted his chin and looked past me.

"I pray to God you would never do such a thing," I finished.

"The rosy hours," he whispered. "When there was no such thing as waking from a nightmare."

The wind changed direction, but I was certain his words made me shudder.

"The storm is getting worse," he murmured. "We better head inside before it starts to pour."

He had no idea how close the storm had reached. The distance in his voice and the look in his eye assured me his thoughts were in a dark place, one I wasn't sure I wanted to know about. Despite nodding, I couldn't move.

"Julia," he said at last. He stared into the rain, his chest heaving.

"What was the nightmare?" I asked suddenly.

He closed his eyes but nodded nonetheless. "Being asked to commit unspeakable acts," he said, his voice so low his words were drowned out by the rain. "It nearly led to an execution."

"Of who?"

"My own."

"For what?"

My heart ached. It saddened me to think of what he'd endured and it frightened me to think of what he had done. Every so often he would mention his uncle, though it never lasted long. It seemed the thought of this man saddened him and I didn't know if it was a mourning sadness or an angry sort of sadness. With Erik the two often seemed the same.

"For what?" I tried again.

He opened his eyes and a flash of lightning illuminated his glassy green eyes. He looked at me suddenly and swallowed. "You should have stayed at home where you were safe," he said, his voice returned to its normal gruff tone.

"When will you be safe?"

He lowered his gaze and took a deep breath. "I've never considered my own safety." He looked at me one last time before he started toward the hotel.

oooOooo

He limped worse than before, which made it easy for me to keep up with him. We walked toward the vacant entrance and I spotted a doorman asleep in the foyer with his arms hugging his chest and hat tipped forward. He didn't notice the _woosh_ of the door opening or our footfalls along the rug, which seemed like an odd bit of luck.

Erik trailed behind once we reached the foyer, his gaze sweeping back and forth. Before he could follow me to the desk, I turned and pressed my hand to his chest.

"Do not touch anything, speak to anyone, or argue with other patrons," I warned. "Sit quietly. I'll only be a moment."

"I am not taking orders," he argued.

"Find some scrap of patience and wait here." I straightened his collar without looking him in the eye. Honestly, I feared I would no longer find him if I looked into the face of a ghost.

"Julia—"

"He's been missing for at least two hours now, Erik. We can't stand around and chat all night, especially when you won't tell me where you think Alex is hiding," I snapped.

"I'll tell you. I'll tell you anything," he said desperately. "Anything at all."

There wasn't enough time for him to tell me everything. "Wait here," I said sternly.

"No, listen to me—"

"Wait. Here."

He called my name one last time and I reluctantly looked back.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his tone hedging on frantic.

I looked away from him, my heart beating wildly as I entered the hotel on his behalf in search of the woman who had been his obsession and was the mother of his only son. I left my home in the middle of the night to find the man who had nearly beaten Erik to death.

Despite my hesitation, I did trust Erik.

And it frightened me. I only hoped he would give me validation in following my heart.


	47. The Comte

Julia47

I took several breaths before I reached the front desk. A young man with wire-rimmed glasses, a ponytail, and a goatee greeted me with a grimace in place of a smile.

"I apologize for the hour of my arrival, but I must speak with two of your guests," I said politely as I blinked away a drop of rain.

He eyed me, and I knew he must have thought I was some vagrant wanting out of the rain.

"Your name?"

"Madame Julia Seuratti," I said.

"And you wish to see…"

"The Vicomte de Chagny," I answered.

His eyes narrowed. "It is the Comte de Chagny," he corrected.

My shoulders dropped, and I knew my misstep had been fatal. "Yes," I said. "I apologize, I had forgotten." God only knew how many years he'd received a more prestigious title.

He clearly thought I was mad, but was decent enough to look at me strangely and not outright say it. With an exasperated sigh, he turned away from me. "The Comte de Chagny and his wife are not taking visitors," he said as he waved me off.

"This is gravely important," I said. So important, I wanted to tell him, that in my haste I had forgotten the Comte's title.

"The Comte de Chagny and his wife are not accepting visitors at this hour," he said louder than before. His tone made me ball my hands into fists.

A man walked up beside me and tapped the bell with his index finger, which startled me. I expected to find Erik beside me, more than willing and absolutely prepared to threaten the man behind the desk.

Instead, a handsome, well-dressed man sidled up beside me and offered a smile. He had bright blue eyes and short hair, his dimples deep and mischievous.

"I was unaware my wife and I were not accepting visitors," he said. He laughed as though terribly amused by the conversation.

I blanched, my heart stuttering as I searched his face.

"Madame…?"

"Julia Seuratti," I answered, almost breathless at the turn of events. I wondered if he had seen us outside in the rain or if he had followed us in his carriage. I wanted to dash outside and see if the Comte had constructed a plan to have Erik taken away.

"Raoul de Chagny," he said. He smiled warmly. "The dresses are done then?"

I shook my head, realizing he had no idea who I was or why I had come to his hotel—and who had traveled with me. "I am not here for clothing," I said.

He cocked his head to the side. "I see."

"Raoul!" a woman growled.

Without turning, I knew who called him. Her voice sent a chill through me.

"Who is this _woman_?" she said through her teeth.

I swallowed hard and watched as the Comte turned to face his wife. His posture changed and he held out his hands. "Madame Julia Sorenti," he said, his tone still light and almost musical.

I made no attempt to correct him, as his wife glared at me with a murderous gleam in her eye. She stood with her shoulders bunched, her arms straight at her sides and hands in fists ready to pummel anything that dared stand in her way.

"Why is she here?" Christine scowled. Her gaze locked on my mine. "What does she want with you at this hour?"

The Comte turned to me, his visage apologetic. "Go on, dear," he prompted. "Tell her about her performance."

I stammered a moment, knowing then that he expected I was about to praise her voice and how she took the stage. There was no appropriate way to explain myself.

"There is a child missing," I blurted out.

"A child?" they said in unison.

Christine was perplexed, but I knew by the Comte's expression that he suddenly realized what I meant. Christine, however, was an actress and the lobby had become her stage.

"Who's child?" she asked. "What in God's sweet name has happened?"

It was a masterful show, her vagueness betrayed only by the slight curl of her lips and the way she coldly stared into my eyes. She knew damn well it was Alex.

"Erik Kire's son," I answered.

Christine didn't miss a beat. "That name, it means nothing to me," she said, her tone acidic.

The Comte's nostrils flared, recognition burning in his gaze. "This is a private matter, Madame," he said sharply. He reached for my elbow, but I pulled away.

"Indeed," I answered. "Alex's father is waiting."

Fear passed through his eyes and he withdrew as though laying his hand on my arm would be like touching a flame. Immediately he looked around, suddenly aware that I had not traveled alone.

"Is he?" he said under his breath.

"We would both like to speak with you."

"He wishes to speak?" he asked with a humorless chuckle.

"That is the only reason why we are here at such a late hour," I said, hoping my words were true. "We are gravely concerned over Alexandre missing."

"Then my wife and I would invite you to our suite," he answered without looking at me. He said his words with a great deal of hesitancy, which I would have expected considering how he had nearly beaten Erik to death earlier in the week.

"You are most…kind," I said.

Looking at the Comte then, I quite frankly saw no hint of a vicious, unpredictable man. He didn't seem like the sort of person who would leave another for dead in an alley—and that made me wonder if he was as good of an actor as his wife or if drunken stupor had taken over and he regretted his actions.

I was no stranger to a man in the throes of drunken stupor.

"And where is Monsieur….Kire, you said?"

"Yes," I answered. "Erik Kire."

"The composer," Christine said. She looked into the distance and held her hand over her heart. "His work is a masterful downpour from heaven itself."

I wondered what my uncle would have said to that. He most certainly would have had a thing or two to say about the diva's performance as well.

Before I could retrieve Erik, he burst through the doors, his momentum stopped once he spotted the three of us.

"Is he here?" he asked as he stormed toward me. No one spoke when he entered.

"Who?" the Comte asked. He stepped forward, though his every move held caution.

"My son," Erik seethed. He stared directly at Christine when he spoke.

"You lost him?" Christine accused before I had a chance to answer. She accented her concern by placing her hand over her heart.

"Oh, shut up," he snapped.

"How dare you!" Christine shrieked.

Erik stalked toward her and the Comte started toward him. I knew what would happen if they were to collide, and I wedged myself between them.

The Comte backed down, but Erik, naturally, needed a push to keep him away. "They have kindly agreed to show us inside," I said evenly.

"How many others does he have waiting for me? Ten, twenty men waiting upstairs to finish me off? Coward! Does it frighten you to see I still live? Survived yet again?"

"Stop it," I snapped.

"You thought it was over, didn't you?" Erik continued. It became almost impossible to hold him back. "You thought I was dead that night? Left for the vermin in an alley. What a hideous feast you left behind for the rats."

Thank God the Comte had no desire to fight him, though Erik most certainly wanted his revenge.

I pinched his upper arm. "Stop acting like a child or I'll leave you to your fate right now," I threatened him. He finally stopped fighting against me and I pushed him back into the wall. "Remember why you are here, you fool."

"Where is he?" Christine demanded.

I stepped away from him and straightened, preparing to mediate a living nightmare. I was surrounded by an angry, foolish man, his mortal enemy, and the manipulative woman they had both fought to claim. If this wasn't hell, I doubted one existed.

"He was at home the last time Madame Giry saw him," I explained. "This was around two hours ago."

"Two hours?" Christine gasped. She glanced at her husband, then toward Erik once more. "My God! What have you done with our son?"

I didn't believe a word of what she said. She was only concerned over her performance.

"Madame, no one is to blame," I said. Answering her felt as though I played into her game, but she held far less sway over me than Erik. "He left a note—"

"Let me see it." Christine walked around her husband and held out her hand to Erik, though she turned her face from him.

His posture changed when she stood before him. He lost his imposing stature, the self-assurance that had dripped from him as he walked through the door. For a long moment he stared at her outreached hand, his lips parted, his eyes fixed on her long fingers.

All it took was a flick of her wrist and she had cowed him. Jealousy raged through me as I considered the complete indifference he'd shown me when we had first me. Even now when I entered the room he never once paused as though the world depended on my every move. This woman, this false Aphrodite, had a hold on him I knew would never loosen. She was there within his mind, a lovely little cancer threatening to blacken and rot away everything I had known of him.

"Erik," I said through my teeth.

"I thought you were inviting us in," he grumbled as he straightened.

No one said a word, though the Comte nodded at last. He had been staring as well, watching Erik nearly bow before his diva wife.

"Of course," he said blandly, like a man defeated. He looked at me with sympathy at our shared hell. "My pleasure."

We followed him and his wife toward a set of doors leading to hotel rooms. The Comte ushered his wife in first, then held the door for me before he quickly turned. The door shut, then immediately opened, and I turned to see Erik fuming.

The Comte's gesture was juvenile, but effective. Despite their differences, de Chagny knew how to play Erik.

"I will kill him," Erik seethed.

"I know, I know," I said quietly.

"He is a damned bastard, a cowardly—"

"For tonight, I will trust in you," I told him, doing my best to believe my own words. I kissed his shoulder and felt his arm snake around me. He took a deep breath, his body less rigid than before and I knew he had forced himself to relax. "But you must give me reason."

"I will," he promised under his breath. He looked me in the eye and gave a single nod.

We said nothing more until we reached their suite.

oooOooo

Two small girls matched in light blue night gowns greeted us at the door with their nanny fretting behind them. They were wild children, both of them jumping and yelling at one another like two unruly little beasts. I couldn't imagine why they were still awake or why their nanny hadn't put them to bed for the night.

At once Christine shooed them off to bed, though the girls giggled and ran around her, both dashing back to see who had come into the suite. Their mother didn't seem to notice their disobedience or make any attempt to control them. She didn't acknowledge them when they spoke or pulled at her dress, which made it seem as though in her eyes, they didn't exist.

The two girls paused once their father closed the suite door and took a deep breath, as though he were finally resigned to not only deal with Erik, but his own daughters as well. The children swatted their father's hands away and gawked at Erik, who was too preoccupied with the Comte to notice.

"Well? Where's the note?" Christine asked once the children were put away with a growl and rough gesture. Once she had lifted her hand toward them, they ran squealing into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. They seemed to enjoy the game of threats their mother played.

Erik stared at the closed door for a moment before he handed her the note. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her briefly before returning his attention to the Comte, who looked increasingly uncomfortable.

There were only two words, but it seemed to take Christine a lifetime to read them. I looked from her to Erik. She had chosen to stand behind her husband as though she expected Erik would hurt her. The Comte stood rigid, his hands in ready fists, his expression hardened.

Erik touched the unmasked side of his face and looked at his fingertips. He looked alarmed as he stared at the crimson stains, and I walked toward him. I pulled out his handkerchief while he looked from his hand to the Comte and I knew I read his thoughts.

He was thinking over the details of their last encounter, of how he had been escorted from this very room, taken across the street, and held while two men beat him within an inch of his life.

The Comte seemed to know this as well and bowed his head as though now, seeing Erik again, he felt a sense of shame or regret.

Unfortunately, Erik would not see any of it. He saw nothing but what his anger would allow.

I dabbed his forehead and turned his face until he finally met my eye. I placed my hand over his thudding heart and offered a smile in exchange for words. When he looked at me, his eyes softened, and at last he sighed.

"That's it?" Christine asked as she crumpled the note and shoved it toward me. I fumbled to grab it and Erik took it from my hands and straightened the page. "It says nothing," Christine seethed.

"It says he's sorry," Erik replied.

She sighed as though she had any right to be aggravated. "And it says nothing more. Frankly I think you're wasting time. Is this a ploy to keep me from him?"

"No," Erik said. It surprised me that he bothered to answer her.

"How ironic that the day before I asked to see him again, he disappears from Madeline's home."

"My home," he corrected.

"What does it matter?" she said with a cruel laugh. "I knew this would happen. I should have taken him in when he first came to me, seeking refuge from _you_."

She turned toward her husband and snapped her fingers. "Raoul, call the front desk. Tell the commissioner—"

"It's only been a few hours," I interjected.

Erik stalked forward. "What do you mean when he first came to you?"

Christine offered a vicious smile. "That is none of your business."

"He's my son. Everything he does is my business."

They stood before one another, their exchange heated with anger instead of passion. I held my breath and waited for them to clash, uncertain if it would hold to loathing or if the heat would rise and he would fall to his knees before her and beg for her acceptance.

"He's my son as well," Christine whispered, her tone hollow.

Erik glared down at her and shook his head. Whatever hold she'd kept over him had vanished. "You lost that right nine years ago when you left him at my door and walked away," he said between his teeth. "Or don't you recall that day, Christine? Do you remember how he screamed? Dressed only in rags? Starving, filthy…that was the child you discarded on my doorstep."

"I would never do such a thing," she gasped.

"You didn't have the decency to name him!" Erik shouted, his arms straight at his sides. He glanced at the Comte, who refused to meet his eye. "Tell me why he came here."

"You know why he came here." She offered a wicked smile, taunting him.

"What did he say?"

"That is private."

"Damn it, what did he say?" he screamed.

I had never seen him so furious and I never would have guessed he would direct his anger at Christine. When he had first started to prepare for her arrival, he spoke of her as though she were a deity. Every aspect of his life had been discarded on her behalf, but now he wanted nothing to do with her. Now, he wanted back what he had nearly lost to his foolishness.

"Erik," I warned. If he kept up at this tone, someone would call the front desk and the gendarmes would arrive to take him away.

"He told me he didn't want you to know," Christine said. "He begged me to protect him."

She knew him better than I expected, but her reign over him had come to an end. I clutched Erik's wrist and said his name again.

"She wants you to argue," I said softly. "Stop this. Now."

With his attention briefly on me, Christine backed away, but he saw her from the corner of his eye. Like an animal of prey, he ripped his hand away from mine and pursued her. Ten years of fascination and longing had been snuffed out by his desire to protect and find the only thing she had ever given him.

"Come with me." He stormed toward her and grabbed her by the wrist. My mouth fell open, but there was no time to react.

He started to drag her away, and I thought for certain she would scream or her husband would retrieve a pistol and shoot Erik dead right then and there, but the room fell silent with anticipation.

In that moment, I knew he would not leave until he had what he wanted or he was dead.

"Don't you even think about lying to me again," Erik seethed.


	48. Accusations and Insults

I'm so curious to know your thoughts and see if Julia's POV lives up to what Erik describes in AHTW. This chapter was hollow and unfinished the first two times I wrote it, so big thanks to Jax for helping to give Julia a push in the right direction and express the smaller details that were missing.

Julia48

In the midst of the chaos, one of the de Chagny's children appeared beside her mother moments before Erik dragged her away. She looked like a miniature of the soprano, with large eyes and a mess of hair no longer tied back.

I wasn't sure what was more shocking: the child witnessing the argument or her calm demeanor. She said nothing of a stranger holding her mother's wrist, but still Erik released Christine and took a step back.

The girl, who couldn't have been older than six, held her doll at her side and looked at Erik with almost a fond expression, as though she knew of him.

"Mommy, your friend is back," she murmured. She clutched the doll against her chest and continued to stare at him. "The angel."

"I know that sweetie. Go on to bed," Christine replied. She didn't turn to face her daughter, but had the audacity to glare at Erik as though he were to blame. Her expression and tone were separate entities, as though she had split herself into two people.

The Comte stared at Erik as well, his face white as a sheet and eyes wide in disbelief as he looked from his wife and daughter to Erik.

"Mommy," the little girl yawned. "I'm thirsty and I need to go to the potty."

"Have Nanette take you. Go right now," Christine said in her sing-song voice.

"Where is Suzette?" she asked. "Is she with him?"

Erik lowered his gaze, his expression darkening. The girl turned slowly to her father and held out her hand. "Daddy?"

"Nanette will take you," the Comte said, though he hesitated.

"Bella, I said go right now," Christine ordered.

"Mommy, is that man going to yell again?"

"No," Erik said softly. "I promise you, child."

The girl stared at him still, even when her mother grabbed her hand and roughly pulled her away. She dug her heels into the carpet and lingered as long as she could.

I studied Erik from where I stood and saw him wring his hands. He looked appalled by what this small girl had seen, his gaze filled with regret rather than acute anger.

No matter what others wanted to make him into, he was not a ruthless monster. I saw in him something I knew he'd rarely seen within himself—control.

"Do as your mother asks. We'll be out on the balcony. I apologize for disturbing you, my dear," Erik said. He looked at her one last time and forced a smile. The girl did the same before she left with her mother.

Silence followed briefly and I had no idea what to say or do. I felt as though we had intruded, but at the same time I couldn't imagine Alex swept into this madness.

"You need to leave now," the Comte ordered once his daughter was out of earshot. He stepped toward Erik, but paused once they faced each other. His voice dropped. "You leave now or the gendarmes will come at once," he threatened.

In a heartbeat they resumed their foolish ways, both of them standing with their chests puffed out.

"To hell with your threats! I leave when I know what my son said," Erik argued, making every attempt to keep his voice low. He looked at me, though I thought it was best we did as the Comte said and left at once.

"Your prisoner again," the Comte said under his breath. He certainly wished to try his luck. "Back into your twisted, wicked labyrinth."

"Did you hear what I said? _My _son! I don't give a damn what she says, he is mine; my blood, my soul, my son. Mine." Erik said, emphasizing each word with a swipe of his hand through the air as though he conducted a full, angry orchestra.

The Comte didn't argue. He stood with his hands at his sides and his eyes cast down. Erik stalked toward him, but he didn't move, and for a moment I thought for certain Erik would grab him by the shoulders—or the neck—and shake him.

"She never told you, did she?" Erik asked, his voice lower than before.

"You have made my life a living hell for far too long," the Comte said, his voice even and controlled. He still hadn't met Erik's eye, which was probably for the best. "You have no right to be in my hotel room insisting that you…you did anything with my wife."

"She wasn't your wife then," Erik said, biting off his words. His arrogance resurfaced while the Comte retracted.

I stepped back from the two of them, feeling as though I was witnessing a conversation far too intimate and overdue. These two men hated each other with undying passion. I couldn't imagine ever clutching so tight to loathing for a person I hadn't seen in ten years, though they most certainly did. No amount of time would have lessened how they felt.

"For God's sake, look at you. There is not even a remote possibility that this boy is your son, do you understand me?" the Comte said. His voice waivered, and when he dared to glance at Erik, I knew he spoke words he didn't believe.

Erik gritted his teeth. "Then tell me why you called him a bastard or I will break your neck."

His face turned bright red. "Christine has been faithful! She would never even have a nightmare as repulsive as you. No woman would dare stomach a moment in…" He glanced at me, then quickly turned away.

I had half the mind to ask him to finish his sentence, but I merely shook my head. Their only purpose was dueling with words, of hating one another for the sake of continuing what they knew of each other. Neither one would see it made no difference now.

Erik followed his gaze and met my eye. He looked as though he regretted allowing me to follow him, despite not having much of a choice.

"Faithful," Erik said under his breath. His words made me shiver.

The Comte took a breath and raised his chin. "Now I said you need to leave," he replied through his teeth, using up the last bit of bravery he possessed.

But Erik wasn't finished. Seeing the two of them together, I wasn't sure he'd ever be done.

"Oh, but I am not yet ready to leave, Vicomte de Chagny. No, Monsieur, I have not yet had the pleasure of your hospitality."

The Comte blanched, rendered speechless by their encounter.

"Do I frighten you now that it is only us?" Erik asked, his voice low and smooth. He held the upper hand and he knew it. The Comte was beside himself, and in that moment of weakness, Erik bore down on him like a beast waiting to take its prey. "Now that the odds are even and there is no one who can save you?"

"You need to leave at once." The Comte backed toward the door and frantically searched for his exit. If he managed to escape the hotel room, he would meet his fate in the hall.

"Erik, he's right," I said.

My words went ignored. Erik flexed his hands and lumbered toward him, his arrogance magnified with each step.

"Did you really think it was over?" he questioned. "Did you honestly think I would stay down?"

The Comte stared at him, wide-eyed and cornered. My heart threatened to leap into my throat as I watched him, knew the desperation he had to feel in his plight.

"Tell me," Erik coaxed. "Tell me what you see when you look me in the eye? Order me to leave, boy. I very much want to hear you speak to me."

His words were automatic and precise. They were inflicted rather than spoken, a verbal execution—if the Comte took the bait and dared to speak. There was no apology or insult he could utter that would change his fate.

"Erik, that's enough," I said quietly, attempting to coax him away as gently as I could.

He didn't acknowledge me. All of his anger, a lifetime of insults and insinuations, of being told how no woman would ever touch him, that he was not Alex's father…it was all within his eyes.

He shot forward, and before I knew what had happened, he grabbed the Comte by the neck and slammed him into the wall.

I gasped, horrified by how quickly he had moved. He was going to kill the Comte for what he had said—and he was going to kill him for what others had said as well. Instead of a husband and father, he saw the bane of his lifetime.

"Erik!" I struggled with him, grabbed him by the arm and wrenched him from side to side until at last he broke his fixation on the man he held by the throat. At first he blinked as though he hadn't recognized me or had forgotten I was in the room, then his expression changed to remorse.

"We've been here long enough," I said. "Your bloodlust is not going to find Alex."

Erik held him by the throat a moment longer, until the Comte gasped for breath. At last he released him and straightened his sleeves, paying no heed to the man he wanted dead.

"You son of a bitch," the Comte coughed as he fell to his knees. "You miserable, grotesque son of a bitch."

I exhaled hard in anticipation of what would follow the Comte's ignorant words. My gut felt as though it had turned over and I wasn't sure I had the strength to come between them again. They both wanted this fight, wanted to have the upper hand in this final battle—and I feared they wouldn't stop until one man had killed the other.

"Answer me," Erik said.


	49. Tempting Death

If you enjoyed this chapter, please review it! A lot of emotion went into the next couple of chapters, so please let me know how it reads! Yes, I'm shamelessly begging for your thoughts. ~G

Julia49

The Comte stumbled to his feet, his face a dark shade of red, forehead beaded with sweat. His clothes were disheveled and his hair mussed from the encounter.

While he attempted to straighten his cravat, he glared intently at Erik, but thankfully didn't say a word to egg him on any further. I clenched my trembling hands and watched as he touched his throat where there were reddened marks in the shape of fingerprints left behind, along with what looked like scratches. He winced and swore under his breath, possibly realizing for the first time that Erik had shown restraint—for the moment.

At once Erik was on top of him. He looked like a stock yard worker, prodding at the Comte until he herded him away from the door. I tried to grab hold of Erik, but he stayed a step ahead of me, and fortunately for the Comte, he managed to stay just out of reach. It must have looked like a ridiculous game of tag between three adults in a hotel room filled with roses and lilies.

"I said answer me," Erik growled. He lost ground, and I noticed when he stepped forward his knees almost gave out.

It became cat and mouse, with the Comte darting forward, then Erik in pursuit. The Comte pulled further ahead as Erik exhausted himself, but I could tell from where I trailed behind that Erik was forcing him deeper into the room. Unfortunately for the Comte, he surrendered far too late.

"Please," he begged, his palms out. He looked absolutely desperate, a feeling I knew all too well.

Erik lifted his hand as well and pulled up his sleeve, exposing the cuts and bruises along his hand and forearm, the marks he'd received from the man now cowering before him. He lifted his chin and drew his lips back as he slowly shook his head.

"Mercy?" he questioned. Darkness returned to him, like the threat of black clouds ominously following a storm. "Only the truly weak beg for mercy."

Chest heaving, the Comte paused, his gaze flooded with trepidation. He understood completely the debt he had created, how his lack of compassion now bore down on him.

I pursed my lips, a swell of pity rising in my chest. I knew how Erik felt, how desperate he had been, how abused and filled with turmoil. We had been amongst the weak, though I had begged for mercy many nights. It hurt me deeply to hear his growled words, to know he had withstood and endured what no child or young man should have suffered. I knew in my heart he would never ask anyone for mercy or help; it just wasn't in his personality. Perhaps he saw this as his greatest strength, this ability to stand alone.

This, however, would not bring him peace or satisfaction—and it would not erase his past. This would only further separate him from the rest of society and even if he didn't care, I cared.

"Erik, you already know the truth," I said gently, hoping it would change the tide.

"You know he's not your son," Erik growled, ignoring me completely. "I don't give a damn what Christine has said to you! Both of you know he is not your son."

In one last attempt to escape, the Comte reeled back. I gasped and reached out, but he didn't see me and fell backward into an armchair. From there he flailed and toppled to the floor, sprawled out on his hands and knees. He scrambled like an animal and turned onto his back.

Erik stood over him, his eyes narrowed. "An eye for an eye," Erik snarled, his voice kept low but resonating with power.

He stood back and picked up his foot, showing the Comte the sole of his shoe. Immediately the Comte snapped his eyes shut and turned his face away in anticipation. He made a noise, a horrible, ungodly sound as he prepared for a merciless death.

I knew without a doubt he would kick the Comte in the face and wouldn't stop until the man was dead—and Erik's chosen victim knew it as well.

"This gains you nothing!" I yelled frantically. I attempted to put myself between them, but Erik stood over him and the Comte had no sense to move. Forced to stand behind where the Comte lay sprawled out, I reached toward Erik, my hands out, my body shaking in fear. I prayed Christine would stay away, as I knew one word from her mouth or the mere sight of her would be like blood to a shark.

"This…this gains everything," Erik replied his tone icy yet even. It bored on satisfaction, as though he had waited a lifetime to best this man.

"Erik, don't. You'll regret it later," I begged him. "You are better than this. You are above this senseless violence. Aren't you?" I blurted out.

He paused and stared at me, the anger in his eyes slowly fading, giving way to the man I recognized, the man I could trust.

He gave a nod, but didn't move from where he stood. The Comte rolled onto his side and spit blood. I wasn't sure how he had been injured, though it looked as if he bit his tongue. Once he realized Erik no longer advanced, he stood and attempted to find a way toward the bedroom doors.

"You are insane," the Comte said.

I pressed my eyes closed and sighed. No matter how close he was to death, he simply needed to take a closer look.

Immediately the fire returned behind Erik's eyes and I knew my words were undone. "What did you say to Alexandre?" Erik seethed.

The Comte stood and hunkered down. He stormed forward, and I wasn't sure what he intended, but his plan failed miserably. Erik lowered his shoulder and hit him square in the chest, then moved toward him and punched him in the gut so hard I thought he would split him in two.

"Erik, that is enough! Leave him alone!"

They struggled, grappled with one another. Fabric ripped, and they continued grunting and tugging at one another until Erik finally opened the balcony door. He hauled the Comte forward by his overcoat and tossed him out onto the balcony. With one last hard look at me, he slammed it shut.

The Comte banged against the door so hard I thought the glass would shatter, but Erik opened it and shoved him away.

"One more disturbance from you and I assure you, vicomte, you shall be silenced forever," Erik snapped.

The Comte stared blankly back at him, his mouth agape. "Don't hurt my daughters!" he blurted out in one final, desperate attempt. He stared at me, his eyes wide, pleading for assistance as though he suddenly realized I was the one keeping him alive.

Static filled my mind. I rubbed my hand over my face and wondered what would happen if I grabbed Erik by the arm and attempted to haul him from the hotel. I could see the Comte hurling himself off the balcony in pursuit, or taunting Erik and drawing him back inside. There was no feasible way to end their madness, at least none I could comprehend in my state of mind.

"You let that man back in here this minute," I demanded.

Erik stood with his back to the door, his chest heaving and face surprisingly flushed. His expression mirrored the confusion I felt inside and I knew he hadn't expected it to turn out like this.

"He's fine," he mumbled.

Terrified eyes stared back through the glass door. Once Erik noticed me staring past him, he shut the curtain.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'm thinking," he said dryly.

"Erik, I came with you to help find Alex, not torment and taunt this man. Let him back inside."

"He beat the hell out of me," he said through his teeth. "Or have you forgotten?"

I shook my head, to which he grunted.

"He deserves to suffer. For once."

I crossed my arms, knowing he wanted his revenge in whatever small way he could find it. "You've already made him suffer."

"Not nearly enough," he protested.

There would never be enough, at least not for Raoul de Chagny to ever witness or experience the type of suffering Erik had endured. He wanted to hurt the Comte in any way he could, whether it was mentally or physically.

"Didn't you hear what he said?" I asked.

"I don't care what he said."

I couldn't look at him. "He said 'Don't hurt my daughters.'"

Erik scoffed. "He's a damned liar and a fool. I haven't even threatened his daughters but he has threatened my son."

"When did he…?" I sighed in disgust before I finished my question. These two men had invented a twisted hatred for one another. "Erik, let him back inside."

His eyes narrowed. "Whose side are you on?"

"Honestly?"

"You choose to defend him?"

"Quit acting so infantile! There are no sides to take, Erik! The only person I care for right now is Alex. You should be ashamed of yourself for wasting your time on petty endeavors when your son is still missing."

He paused, looked me in the eye, then quickly looked away. "He's hiding, not missing."

I inhaled sharply, which once again garnered his attention. By the way he stared back at me I must have looked stunned. "What does that mean?"

"It means I know where he is, given that he's not here. And I think both of them know it as well."

"Where is he then?" I put my hands on my hips and blinked at him, furious he'd decided to keep this information to himself.

"The opera house," he answered, sounding matter of fact. He turned, parted the curtains, and walked out onto the balcony before I could question him.

I followed him out and found the Comte with his back to us. He barely moved, and I wondered if he expected Erik would kill him. He had every reason to believe his demise bore down on him.

"I never said a word to him," he said quietly. "I never said a word to Alexandre."

Erik balled his hands into fists. "Yes you did. You called him a bastard. He told me you called him a bastard and I will consider my flesh and blood's words over a cowardly, drunken aristocrat."

"I shouted at him, but I never spoke to him," he said softly. "He started to throw rocks at us and I chased him to the end of the street. When I saw his face, I stopped...I stopped everything."

My lips parted as I listened to the exchange, my thoughts scattered between Alex's wellbeing and the Comte realizing who had come to save Erik's life.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what went through the Comte's mind when he saw this boy whose face so closely resembled his beloved wife. I had often wondered what I would do if one day I saw a child resembling Louis. I doubted a man of station such as Raoul de Chagny could comprehend such a meeting.

"If you had dared to hurt him, I swear to God—"

"I didn't hurt him," he said quickly. "I would not have hurt him no matter what. He's only a child."

"Then why did you come to my house looking for him?" Erik asked. His anger had returned, though he managed to curb it in order to gain information. Whatever the Comte said next would either save his life or kill him.

"To see what he looked like," he answered at once, his eyes filled with desperation. "I wanted to know. I had to see him for myself." His voice cracked, his eyes turned glassy. "Ten years of never knowing..until now."

For a long moment Erik went silent. I reached for his hand, and he squeezed my fingers briefly before he stepped away. "And what do you know now, after ten years?"

The Comte grasped the railing and leaned forward. I swallowed, wondering if he would topple over, if this night had driven him to suicide over his wife's previous relations.

"Don't," I said softly. "Please, Comte." I wasn't sure if he heard me, but eventually he straightened his spine.

"I know his face." He exhaled and his breath rolled out before him on the damp, cold air. His lips trembled, his hair plastered to his forehead. "You know who he looks like. You know exactly who he looks like. His eyes, his hair…"

"I don't care who he looks like," Erik argued. "Alexandre is my son! He's been in my house since he was weeks old! Abandoned! Unwanted! And I will be damned if you think you will take him from me."

His voice had turned to a growl echoing in the night. If no one had called the gendarmes yet, I had no doubt Erik gave them reason to come now.

"The only thing we know for certain is that he is Christine's son." The Comte said, his voice strangely calm. "I would never hurt Alexandre. I would never know if I punish my son…or another man's child. It doesn't matter, does it? He is not at fault…we are."

The hurt in his eyes was almost unbearable. He looked at Erik then, his vacant eyes searching Erik's stone cold face.

"All these years," the Comte said under his breath. "All these years of thinking we were happy and then this." He turned and leaned over the balcony, his hands balled into fists. He put his foot on the bottom bar and looked as though he would step up, but he paused. "You've given me countless reasons to hate you," he said with a humorless chuckle. "For the past nine years I have been constantly looking over my shoulder. At every performance I search each shadow, watch each step, expect each curtain fall will be the last time I see my wife. You're never there when I search. Yet I know you're always there…there in a way I cannot prevent."

His words sent a chill through me. I watched Erik from the corner of my eye and saw him tilt his head down. I wondered if he felt a sense in shame for how he still haunted this man. I wondered if the Comte was ashamed of his own actions over the last few days. Neither of them had showed their quality.

"I don't know who Alexandre belongs to, but those are my daughters in there," he said, his voice low and trembling. "When I came home and Christine told me you were in our bedroom…I wanted to kill you. You have no right to be around my family."

Erik snatched him by the collar. "Look at me and tell me we are even. You have a wife, you have two children and you are allowed to see the world. I had my son."

My heart ached. I wanted to grab him by the arm, look him in the eye, and ask him if he had forgotten he had me as well.

"I never took your son from you! He left of his own accord." He brushed Erik's hand away at last."You had that coming to you after all these years," he said between his teeth. He pointed at the darkened alleyway and took a step toward Erik until they stood chest to chest. "I would gladly beat the life from your body if you dared to come near my family again," he shouted in Erik's face.

The two of them stared at once another for a long moment.

"I wasn't coming for your family."

"You came for my wife!"

Erik paused, his gaze searching the Comte's face. "Your children were safe."

"And my wife?" he asked. "Is she ever safe from you?"

Erik started to reach for him, but paused and shook his head. He glanced toward me and took a breath. "I would never hurt her. She…she was dear to me for a very long time. No matter what she did to me, I would not harm her or her daughters." He looked at me again. "Nor any woman."

Physically, at least, he was telling the truth. He had hurt me many times before emotionally, whether intended or not. When I looked at him, I wasn't sure what he saw when he met my eye.

The Comte grunted.

"What in the hell was that for?" Erik muttered.

"I said nothing," the Comte said under his breath.

I pushed between them. "Gentleman," I said, though it hardly seemed like an appropriate name for either of them.

The Comte lowered his eyes. "She took it hard when our daughter died," he said suddenly, his voice just above a whisper. He was breathing heavier than before, and the determination in his gaze left Erik and I both silent. "There were nights when she would wake and tell me Suzette was fine, that she was sound asleep in her bed even though…we both knew. She would check on the girls, come back to bed and tell me Suzette was with Madame Giry. Then she would tell me Madame was guarded by an angel."

Erik suddenly straightened, his head snapping up as he studied the Comte with great intensity.

"I had no idea why she would say such a thing, but I accepted her words. It was easier than arguing, I suppose." He took a deep breath and his shoulders dropped. "Now I know why she said such things. All of these years of silence and she's thought of him, of where he grew up and with whom. Not once did she mention him but she must have always thought of him. I was a fool."

I highly doubted Christine had ever thought of Alex fondly or concerned herself with his wellbeing, but I kept silent. Her abandonment had given him a loving home and unparalleled education.

The Comte looked at Erik strangely, as though evaluating him before he spoke again. Erik looked away at last and pressed his fingers to his temple. There was blood gathering along the edge of his hairline, which sealed the mask to his face.

I wondered if Erik was still listening and dreaded what more the Comte could divulge. De Chagny seemed drunk on his experience, intoxicated by the threat of death.

"And all of that time, I realize when she would sit alone at night and ramble about how she knew Suzette was safe and protected she was thinking of you, her music teacher." He shook his head. "She never forgot you."

His words lingered in the damp night air. I hugged my arms across my chest, unsure of how to digest the Comte's words. He was speaking madness and temptation, the perfect concoction for a desperate man.

"Why would you tell me this?" Erik growled. "Sympathy?"

He turned to face Erik, his expression hardened. "I don't want your sympathy just as you do not want mine."

"Then what do you want?" Erik demanded.

"If there is any chance—any chance at all that Alexandre is my son, I must see him again. I must know for certain if he is my blood…and I will. We all will." His jaw clenched. "I must find peace," he whispered.


	50. Christine's Stage

When I wrote AHTW I always wondered what was going on in Julia's mind when she's mediating not only between Erik and Raoul, but also what in the world happened when she steps off the balcony, leaves the men alone, and comes face-to-face with Christine. At this point, Christine is like a fairytale princess who can do no wrong in Erik's eyes, but then she's seen for what she really is. What does Julia see? Well, now we find out. This chapter took a lot of long nights reading, rereading, and constructing what I hope is a near perfect scene. How close is it to what you imagined? This is also a very long chapter (especially for me) so any thoughts are very much appreciated. Cough lurkers cough.

Julia50

The situation had become surreal, and while I stood shivering in the night, I found both Erik and the Comte more alike than different. I doubted either one would have considered my thoughts a compliment.

I had no doubt Raoul de Chagny was sincere in his words. He had not come looking for Erik or a fight, but that's what he had found. He was a man defending himself.

"A truce?" Erik asked as though the idea was utterly ridiculous. He draped his cloak over my shoulders and crossed his arms.

The Comte ran his hand over his hair and turned to me, apparently finding no reason to address Erik a moment longer. "I want to see Alexandre. If a truce is needed to see him again then I will gladly extend an olive branch."

I nodded and frowned, keeping my eye on the Comte while I listened to Erik grumble under his breath. He didn't want to listen and I couldn't blame him, especially given the circumstances.

"An olive branch?" Erik asked.

I doubted the Comte caught the pain in Erik's words, but I knew without looking at him that he had completely exhausted himself. What little strength remained was kept alive by anger and nothing more. He shifted his weight, testing his legs, before he moved to rest against the wrought iron balcony.

"You have my word," the Comte promised.

"Your word means nothing to me," Erik seethed.

"I would swear upon my children."

This seemed to suffice. Erik nodded, but kept his fierce gaze pinned on the man before him. "What about the gendarmes?" he asked.

The Comte's eyes widened and he stammered. "I don't understand."

"Your wife said she would call the gendarmes."

"I—I had no idea."

Erik's jaw tensed and he tilted his head to the side. "You had no idea," he said coldly.

"No, Monsieur—"

"You want to call a truce but it gains nothing for me."

The Comte looked away and offered no answer. Looking at him then, I had a feeling he was used to being complacent, to obeying the desires of his wife in order to avoid confrontation and public scenes. I could relate to him in a sense, knowing when to bend just enough to avoid breaking.

"Ah, then let's review the benefits of your truce. You will have peace of mind that I will not kill you. You will see Alexandre and persuade him with pretty things, and your wife will steal him from me. That is the benefit of a truce," Erik said through his teeth as he stabbed at the air.

"I'm not trying to steal him."

"You simply want to see the child and nothing more?" Erik questioned. He waited a moment and stared down the Comte, his eyes narrowed and jaw set. "To hell with you."

"As a man who has lost his own daughter I would not take another man's child, even out of spite," the Comte said, his tone escalating to meet Erik's. "You have my word. If there is no indication that this boy is my son I will make no attempt to take him from you this night or any other. That is my word."

"What about your wife?"

The Comte immediately looked away, and in his eyes I saw trepidation. It seemed ironic that this man had once feared Erik for his power and sway over Christine, yet his wife clearly had control of him and strangled him into silence, even when she wasn't present. "I cannot speak for my wife."

"It seems you've done quite a bit of speaking on her behalf already."

His jaw twitched, his nostrils flared. "As I have previously said, Monsieur, no matter what happens he is still her son."

When I looked at Erik, I knew we were both thinking the same thing: Christine was only Alex's mother in the loosest sense of the word. She had given birth to him and little else, and as far as I was concerned, she was undeserving of the title. Judging by the manner she completely disregarded her own daughters, I saw no reason why she would want Alex returned to her.

The Comte looked directly at me. "This is hard enough already and I don't want to make it any more difficult. You have no idea what it does to my heart to think she had a child…without me," he said, his expression darkening.

Erik refused to be ignored. He pushed off the wall and scowled. "Without you?" he taunted. "You have no idea what it is to cherish and love something to the point of madness and have nothing in return," he growled back.

His words made me shiver. His attachment to Christine had not been a fleeting thought; it had been like blood in his veins, the purpose in his life. It was like seeing a man lose faith in his religion.

The Comte frowned and shook his head. "She—"

"She what? Betrayed you? Gave you hope?" His voice trembled with emotion, his eyes wide and filled with agony and I knew he had come to terms with what had happened, the finality of events. There would be nothing for him with Christine, no part of her life to include him. After ten years, this was how it would end.

Erik waited for the Comte to answer, but the man only shook his head. He didn't have any fight left in him—but Erik wasn't quite through. I could tell by the way he stood, so rigid and still, that there was a great deal more on his mind.

"Did she writhe within you, you sniveling, unworthy child?" he asked, his voice low but unbearably strong. "Did you feel as though you lived and died when she spoke to you? What did you feel when her eyes met yours and in that moment you were worthy of something as small as her smile? Did it lessen the pain?"

He paused, his chest heaving, his eyes suddenly wide. Far too late he caught himself in the middle of his confession and turned away. "Don't tell me of suffering, vicomte. You're describing hell to the devil himself," he finished quietly.

I turned on my heel and fled the balcony, my heart hammering with such intensity I thought I would collapse. The way he had spoken of Christine left me shaken, his honesty so brutal before the man he despised.

My mind reeled and I stared at the carpeting. I had known, of course, that Erik's feelings for Christine were unmatched by anything else in his life. Over the past year it had become brutally obvious, though I hadn't expected him to speak of her in such paralyzing fashion.

"You," Christine seethed. My head snapped up and I found her standing within arm's reach. Her silent presence startled me and I gasped at the sight of her suddenly standing before me. I had no idea how she had managed to creep up without me noticing and I wondered how long she had stood watching me.

She was more petite than I remembered, but she knew how to make her presence larger than life. She stood with her back straight and her arms stiff. The look in her eyes was filled with hatred, her face taut with emotion. She didn't need to speak another word; I knew her intentions.

"How dare you invade my life," she said, her voice a rumble, like the buildup of a storm. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed her contorted face.

"We came only to find Alexandre," I said calmly. In the years I had been married to Louis, I had been well groomed for encounters borne of pure anger. Many times I had quietly avoided an argument—or something worse than words.

"He doesn't exist," she said quietly.

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't understand, Madame."

"Comtess," she snapped. "You miserable whore, you will address me by my proper title."

"Of course," I said quietly, mustering the last of my patience. "Comtess de Chagny, what do you mean Alexandre doesn't exist?"

"He died," she said. I held my breath, fearful of her words. "He died when he was weeks old. An angel took him."

I released a soft sigh. "What a terrible shame."

She started toward me and I backed away, carefully avoiding her. "Do you know what is a shame? It's a shame what happened to my angel, my glorious angel. He would come to me when I slept," she said softly, her eyes glazed over. "Oh, yes, he would come to me in the night. I once had a dream he was taken away from me. I saw him there, renewed…restored. He was perfect, yes, he was perfect, but no one else saw it. They took him away, you know, took him to the gallows and I watched as they strung him up by the neck."

Her horrid tale made me sick to my stomach. She followed me in a daze, her story little more than incoherent ramblings, her movements swift and frantic.

"What was his name?" I asked.

Christine smiled. "Angels don't have names, you ignorant quim!"

I paused and felt heat rise up my neck with her insult. For such a manicured diva, she had a wretched mouth. "I cannot imagine an angel gracing you with his presence," I shot back.

She chuckled to herself, her tone chilling, her face contorted like a child on the verge of a tantrum. I could see the determination in her eyes, the way she fought for just enough composure to speak.

"Tell me, Madame, how do you find the strength?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she replied. "How do you find the strength at night when he crawls into your bed? How do you keep from retching at the feel of him? Do you close your eyes? Is he quick about it?" She stormed toward me, her eyes sparkling with madness. "Does he utter my name, or has he said hers?"

I stared back at her, hating that she knew his secrets better than me. I knew precisely what name she meant—and it sickened me. He had only murmured a name in his sleep, in utter terror. I wondered how many moments of madness spent with Christine had driven him to think of her, this other woman from his past.

I reached up, fully intending to slap her across the face, but she grabbed my wrist and shoved me toward the table holding a half dozen vases. I stumbled, arms extended, as glass shattered at my feet.

She grabbed me before I could react and I flailed about until she backed off. In her hand she held a jagged piece of glass, and before I realized what was happening, she advanced and wielded the glass shard like a knife.

I turned my head to the side and squeezed my eye shut while she made a guttural sound. She cried out for her daughter, the one who had passed, and muttered incoherently.

"My angel will save your soul," she said through her teeth as she grabbed me by the hair.

Teeth gritted, I pried her hand away, doing everything in my power to escape her. I feared if I succumbed to her anger and fought back she would do more harm.

"I will kill you if you touch me!" she screamed in my face.

The piece of glass flashed before my eyes, so close to my face I swore I still felt the pull of the sharp edge across my flesh.

The commotion drew Erik and the Comte from the balcony.

"My God," the Comte said under his breath.

"Madame, please, Alexandre is missing," I said quietly, attempting to draw her from her madness.

"Don't you dare try to replace me," Christine snarled as she approached, the blue glass piece held high above her head. "Don't you dare try to become my son's mother."

"My only reason to be here is to have Alexandre back safe," I said. My voice betrayed me and I knew my words were spoken in fear. If she wanted to kill me, she would drive the shard into my chest. I had no doubt she was capable of hurting me out of revenge.

"Christine!" the Comte yelled.

I saw Erik run toward me, but I didn't dare look away from the possessed woman who had cornered me. I braced myself, fully expecting her to unleash whatever anger she had built up within her.

Erik grabbed me around the waist and pressed me firmly to him. His arms engulfed me, his face pressed to the top of my head. I felt him tremble as he held me, as he protected me from the woman who had always graced the highest pedestal.

He placed hand on the side of my face and turned my head away, shielding me from her. I felt as though I had stood on the brink of death, a strangely familiar sensation I had experienced many nights, wondering when Louis would be unable to stop himself.

It had been a long time since I had defended myself or coped with violence. Erik, however, seemed keenly prepared.

"Stay behind me," he said in my ear as he turned and stepped in front of me. I tried desperately to hold onto him, afraid for myself as well as him. She wouldn't be easily curbed, not in such a fractured state of mind.

"Don't do this," I begged.

He ignored my words. "No matter what happens, you stay behind me."

"You are not welcome here," Christine hissed, her gaze shifting between us.

"Leave her alone and we will leave," Erik replied, his tone strong yet even.

"My God," I whispered. "This is madness."

"I want you both to stay away from my son," Christine seethed as she jabbed the glass at us. Erik stepped toward her, his forearm held up to block her. If she sliced through his forearm, she would tear through nerves and he would most likely never play the violin again. I wondered if he considered this fate.

Her husband slowly tiptoed toward her and held out his hand. "Calm down, my dear," he cooed. "You will exhaust yourself."

"He's mad," she said loudly. "He's insane."

The Comte didn't argue with her. He reached into his trouser pocket and showed her a small amber-colored bottle but she barely glanced at him. Her focus was on Erik, whom stood before her without blinking, without fear of what she would do to him.

"You," she said. "You should be dead."

"We need to find Alexandre," the Comte said calmly. "My dear, come with me. You will make yourself ill if you continue."

"Call the gendarmes," Christine demanded as she pointed toward the door. "I want to see his neck snap when they hang him. I want him to join his son."

I dug my fingers into Erik's arm and buried my head against his chest. "She's lying."

"I know," he said softly.

"Lay down awhile and rest yourself," her husband continued, still dangling the bottle in front of her.

"I will not rest! He is not allowed near my son!" Christine said through her teeth. "He is not allowed to have anything to do with my children! He stole my son from me! He is a liar and a thief!" She swiped her hand toward Erik, who blankly stared back at her.

"My dear," the Comte said softly.

But she was not about to quit. "You wicked, wicked man, with your tricks and lies and your voice—your angel's voice in my head." She yelled at such a high-pitch that I winced, having no idea how she continued. I couldn't imagine how she could sing or even speak once she finally relented.

Christine looked around and shoved a vase off the nearest table, sending a spray of roses, water and glass at her feet. "Don't you ever come near me again, do you understand me? Once…yes, once I allowed you near me. Do you remember that night? The way you coaxed me, dragged me into your…"

"Enough," the Comte growled. "Christine."

She ignored him. In a moment of blind terror, of heartache and confusion, none of us spoke. We allowed her the stage and she made certain her performance would never be forgotten.

"What a cruel and vicious beast you were, Phantom. You were so gentle in your actions, so perfect with your promises. You said you would never leave me and now I will make certain you never do." Her face twisted, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. "But you cannot stay here, not like this, not now." She inhaled sharply and wrapped her arms across her stomach. I thought she would double over from whatever pain she experienced or imagined. "You are still hideous beneath the mask."

"Let us out the door and we will never return here again," Erik replied. I could feel him trembling and wasn't sure if it was with rage or fear, as he had a right to feel both. I heard him inhale sharply, felt his body jerk with emotion over what she had become. This was the reality of his long-sought dream, the woman he had put above all others.

She clutched her ears with her palms and grimaced. "Don't speak to me! You fill my heart with such madness!"

"Christine!" the Comte whispered loudly. "Come with me and I will see them out. Take your medicine and lay down."

She turned to him for the first time, her expression filled with loathing. There was no forgiveness in her eyes when she glared at the only person in the room still willing to save her."You should have killed him! After all he's done to me, you should have killed him! Why did you allow him to leave that night, you coward? You are worthless! You have always been worthless!"

"I wanted to protect you," the Comte said. "Murder was never my intention."

"And to think I chose _you_." Christine wiped her hand over her face and smeared fresh blood across her cheeks, which mirrored the blood from Erik's stitches. "You are the reason my daughter died," she said coldly. "You allowed her to die."

The Comte closed his eyes and released a sigh. "Christine," he begged.

She teetered, swayed back and forth with the piece of glass loosely held in her right hand. "I will apologize to her for your…incompetence…when I see my angel. I will beg her to forgive this despicable creature she called a father."

"Christine, the girls," her husband reminded her. The hurt in his eyes was almost unbearable, but still he trudged on, still attempted to calm her despite her spewing such ugly words. "Hush, my dear, the girls are sleeping."

I doubted they were sleeping with all the commotion. I imagined they were both standing with their ears pressed to the door, lingering just outside of an all too familiar hell.

"They will sleep an eternity, I'll make certain of that." Christine turned back to Erik and grinned.

He shook his head at her words when she spoke to him. I could see the heartache in his eyes when he looked at her, searched for some hint of what she had once been to him. I doubted he had ever seen this side of her, or at least not to this extent.

"They are children," he said under his breath. "Your children."

"The angel wants them," she said, her breaths ragged.

"The angel would never accept them, not like that." Erik said, his voice was so low I could barely hear him and I knew it hurt him deeply to hear her threaten her own daughters.

"But he wants the boy, doesn't he? You will never see him again," she said slowly. There was wickedness within her, something dark and unrecognizable that made bile rise in my throat. "He knows. He knows everything about you, about your past. You want to know what I told him? I told him the truth. You didn't think I knew of your past, did you?"

I closed my eyes and gulped for air, wondering if she was telling the truth or a beautiful, sick lie. All I wanted was a way out, though this maze she created exclusively for Erik seemed to have no exit.

Their exchange made me wonder if this was how he remembered her, if she had welcomed him in only to push him away; temptation and denial. All accounts in the newspapers made it seem as though Christine Daae was the innocent lamb preyed upon by a vicious monster. Not that he was innocent, but Erik had made more sacrifices than anyone would have ever guessed. Greater still was the man who had stood beside her for ten years and who still attempted to guide her to his side. I couldn't imagine what Raoul de Chagny had endured and what he would continue to suffer on her behalf. He had been dealt a strange hand.

"You know nothing of me," Erik said, his tone as cold as hers. "You never did."

I clung to him and hoped I knew him better than the rest. It was the only way we would ever survive the night.


	51. Life of Privledge

If you're wondering about the name of the "other woman" Christine mentions in the previous chapter, you can find out in Of Persia. Yes, that's my plug for my other story.

And now for some more Crazy Chrissy. I love, love, love this chapter! I hope you do too!

Ch 51

Erik's words came automatic. _You know nothing of me. You never did._

He needed to speak these words, to say aloud that what he'd once perceived as his life was no more than a fleeting, miserable thought. Despite his words, Christine had no intention of listening to any voice save her own.

"You should be dead," Christine seethed, her eyes narrowed and trained on Erik. "You should be dead somewhere—anywhere, dead and unnoticed, rotting away like the corpse you've always been. You deserve nothing. You never did, you never will."

The vicious nature of her words left me speechless. I couldn't imagine ever addressing another person in such a cruel manner, especially when she had not seen how Erik treated his son. She hadn't seen them interact; the way Erik softened when his son was near or when he thought of him. Alex was like a serum to him, a necessary element that completed his life.

She hadn't seen him grumble over how Alex had once decided to paint the dog—with mud—and though it had aggravated Erik, he still chuckled at his son's antics. She hadn't heard Alex laugh so loudly I could hear him through my open window. She hadn't witnessed a powerful, stoic man who kept his emotions guarded, give himself completely to his son. He was a faulted man, but he was a good father.

"For God's sake, Christine, come with me," her husband pleaded.

"What did you say to him?" Erik asked quietly. I couldn't tell if he was attempting to curb his temper or if she had reduced him to a whisper.

"What a nightmare for that poor child. All of these years! All of them! Left in a house without escape, without love."

Erik's head snapped up, every muscle in his body tightening as he glared at her. He would tolerate any insult thrown his way, but he would not overlook these words.

"You abandoned him as an infant!" he bellowed. "How dare you even insinuate that I never loved him! I was the one who wanted him, who wanted him even before he was born. You said you would terminate him before his first breath—"

"Erik, don't do this," I said as I clutched the back of his waistcoat with my good hand. I knew if he continued she would only tear him apart and this served no purpose. "Let's just leave and find Alex."

He took a deep breath, harnessing all of his anger and swallowing it down once more. With a nod, I knew he was prepared to leave this madness for good.

"He will never return to that _thing _he believes is his father," Christine hissed.

I audibly gasped at her insult and the satisfaction in her eyes. Her only intent was to humiliate him before a small audience.

"I am his father!" Erik shouted. He caught himself too late and made every attempt to lower his voice. "I loved him more than anything in the world! Everything I did for the past nine years was done with him in mind!"

He stepped toward her. With my hand wrapped around his waistcoat, I had no choice but to follow. I peered over his shoulder, saw Christine wild-eyed and boiling with anger, her lips pulled back, her eyes filled with murderous rage. If the gendarmes did arrive, I expected they would take her as well, especially in her state of madness.

Erik started toward her, determination in his every move. "I loved him more than anything. I _still_ love him more than anything, even you. No, much more than you. I love Alexandre more than I ever loved you." He sucked in a breath and shook his head. "I thought I loved you. I was mistaken."

His voice trembled as he spoke. I couldn't imagine his life without Alex and I knew as he stood there, he professed his feelings as he'd never done before. He'd spent his lifetime pursuing a woman he didn't understand and now—at last—he knew what he didn't want or need. I couldn't understand why we remained in their hotel room, aside from he wanted to speak his mind regardless of whether she listened or not.

"I would rather have drowned him than let him suffer. If I had known you were there—"

"You always knew I was there with him. You knew since I wrote you—and don't say that you never saw my note because you did! I know you did!"

I felt the Comte staring at me and turned, glancing briefly at him. I knew he questioned Erik's words and looked to see my reaction, but I turned quickly. I had no idea what Erik spoke of and I was too exhausted to question anything he said further. I had heard a great deal more than I ever desired.

"What a curse you have been to me all these years! First my son, then my daughter! You are worse than a plague! But you will never do anything more, not when they come for you, and they will come for you. You'll never find them—either of them. They do not belong to you! They are mine! Mine and only mine!" Christine stomped her feet like a child in the midst of a tantrum. Her face had turned bright red, her hair a tangled mess tossed over her shoulders.

At last Erik turned away and I put my arm around him. His heart thudded against his chest and he shifted his weight. I had no idea how he continued to stand.

"What have you done to Alexandre?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Don't say his name! He rejects you!" she continued to yell despite standing almost arm's length away. "He will never come near you. No one would be blind enough, no one would ever be foolish enough to love you! Look at yourself, look at your frightful, sinful self. Now he will never have to look at you again! Now he will join Suzette."

"What have you done to Alexandre?" he asked again in a far calmer tone than I would have mustered.

"I've taken him away where he will be loved at last." She smiled and laughed to herself. "To the true angels."

As she stood there wielding a broken piece of glass, I wondered how capable she was of hurting her own son. Though Erik had told me long ago her daughter Suzette had died from a fever, I wondered if there were other contributing factors. This woman had easily discarded her two daughters, acted as though they didn't exist when they asked for her attention. Perhaps she hadn't recognized her daughter's illness or cared that she was sick. Perhaps she had purposely allowed her child to perish.

A woman such as Christine was incredibly dangerous. There was no telling what she had done to Alex, both physically and mentally—if she'd seen him at all. If there was a scratch on that child or a tear in his eye, she would answer to Erik.

"When did you last see him?" Erik asked.

"Eight years ago."

His jaw clenched. "When did you last see Alexandre?"

"Four nights ago…three nights ago….an hour ago." She played with the shard of glass. "He struggled only briefly when I told him he was not your son. It brought peace to him, I think." She held up the piece of glass and looked as though she were ready to stab Erik in the chest. "I wish you could have seen him."

With those words, Raoul de Chagny bolted toward her and grabbed her by the wrists. It was a brief yet incredibly violent struggle and I winced as he dragged her to the ground and pounded her hand into the carpet until she released her weapon.

She screamed out, cursing and raving still, but he covered her mouth and nose, which gave her no choice but to finally stop. Chest heaving and hair plastered to his forehead, the Comte sat on her hips, pinning her to the ground, and with one hand forced her mouth open. She struggled, biting the palm of his hand, but he never once made a noise or backed down.

He looked fully capable and indeed accustomed to this type of treatment.

Erik stepped forward, but I pulled him back. "You can't…help her," I whispered.

We both watched in silence as the Comte showed her the amber colored bottle and she stilled at last, her face bright red and beaded with perspiration. I took a deep breath and hoped the laudanum would finally put her at ease.

"That's it," the Comte said to her as he brushed her hair from her eyes. He spoke softly, lovingly to a woman who barely seemed to recognize him. He had clearly made a difficult decision, one which threatened his well-being daily, yet he didn't hesitate to comfort her. "Close your eyes and rest awhile. You'll be safe in bed when you wake."

"And Suzette?" she asked, her voice trembling as though she were on the verge of tears.

"Suzette is with the angels."

She laughed and her eyes fluttered shut. With a smile, she stretched out and sighed.

"And Alexandre? You won't let them find our son, will you, Raoul? He belongs to both of us, darling." She reached out, but it wasn't toward her husband.

"I don't know where he is, Christine. Tell me, darling, tell me he's not with Suzette." His voice broke when he whispered to her. He glanced at Erik and frowned, which made me shudder. If he thought his wife could hurt her own son, then my confidence in finding Alex unharmed dwindled. "Tell me he is still alive," he pleaded.

"Alive? Yes, he's alive. He told me he was never loved and then I told him to go to the lake—the dark lake. I told him I didn't know the way but that there was an angel there—a glorious angel who sings. He told me he would wait for the angel. He was very happy, very happy indeed."

My skin prickled at her words. The Comte nodded blankly while Erik stood silently at my side. I wondered if she had approached Alex and fed him twisted, vicious stories or told him his father didn't love him, that he was a pawn to reunite them. When I glanced at Erik, I had a feeling he held the same thoughts.

Silence fell over the room. It had been many years since I had read the articles regarding the opera house disaster, but I remembered hearing of a lake far beneath the theater. It was thought Erik had drowned there, which clearly he hadn't. I had assumed the lake a myth, but evidentially it was real.

The Comte moved Christine like a ragdoll and made her sit up. She draped her arms over his shoulders and began to weep with such force it shook her petite frame. She moaned her husband's name, followed by the names of her daughters. Lastly—with great clarity, she called out to Erik.

He didn't move or acknowledge her.

"Tell them I am sorry," she whispered as she clung to her husband.

With that she slumped over and her husband buried his face in the crook of her neck and wept soundlessly. He swept her into his arms and held her in a way that felt far too intimate to stare. Despite what he'd seen and experienced, he still loved her. No matter what, I had a feeling he would always love her. Under different circumstances, I thought I would have admired and appreciated him.

Time seemed to slow. The nanny appeared and helped the Comte assist his wife into the bedroom. The young woman said little, her expression calm and every action focused on her duty. It was clear this was not the first episode she had witnessed as she spoke clearly and asked her employer routine questions as to what he wanted for breakfast and if his wife should take her medication again in the morning.

Once they carried Christine from the room, the cut to my hand suddenly throbbed. I inhaled sharply and looked at the laceration which had dried with blood. It could have been far worse, I knew. She could have stabbed me repeatedly with her weapon, or cut me across the arm until I bled out. She could have done far greater harm.

Emotions bore down on me, and despite every attempt to choke back the tears, they flowed without warning.

Erik studied me for a moment as he stood quietly before me. His lips twitched as he gently took my wrist in one hand and cradled my loosely held fist in the other. His eyes met mine and without saying a word, he silently apologized.

"Let me see it," he said quietly.

I sniffled, so overcome with emotion I could barely think. "She—she cut me."

I turned away as he straightened my fingers. I had seen so many wounds and had tended my own, but this was not an injury I had any desire to treat or examine. This was too closely part of a nightmare, of a past that wasn't mine but had somehow become my life. This was an inheritance I never knew existed.

"I'm sorry, Julia," he whispered, his voice trembling with sincerity. "I am so terribly sorry, my dear."

I felt the tug on the center of my hand followed by a rush of warmth and resonating pain and knew he had pulled a sliver from my flesh. I focused on his words rather than the pain, but both were too much to bear. If he hadn't walked into the room, I had no doubt I would have suffered more than a cut to the hand.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. He searched for words to fill the silence or to distract me from the pain. I blankly watched as he wrapped his handkerchief around my palm, then gently stroked my hair. With Christine and her husband a room away, I was his only concern.

I buried my face against his chest and held him close, fighting off the numbness threatening to claim me. "No, it doesn't really hurt. I thought she was going to kill me," I sobbed.

His arms wrapped tightly around me and he kissed the top of my head. "So did I," he admitted. He inhaled sharply. "I don't know what I would do without you…who I would be…Julia."

The lump in my throat made it almost impossible to breathe. I stood up against him with my eyes closed and simply held him, afraid to let go. He held me tightly, pressing himself to me as he kissed the side of my face and my ear. His actions were almost frantic in nature, as though he desperately needed to show his affection.

"I'd like to leave now," I squeaked through my tears. "Before she comes back."

The bedroom door clicked shut. Erik escorted me toward the exit and didn't notice the Comte silently watching us until he ushered me through the door. I started to speak, but the door closed and I waited, hoping these two men could be trusted alone.

Seconds passed and I agonized over what would happen behind that door, what they would accuse each other of doing now that Christine was no longer within the room.

I started to reach for the door handle, but Erik appeared with the Comte at his heels. Erik sighed and shook his head at me before he motioned down the hall. The Comte bowed his head and frowned, looking like a lost dog.

"Madame," he said.

I had nothing to say to him. "Comte," I responded awkwardly.


	52. Imperfect Confessions

I did quite a bit of expansion on this chapter thanks in part to my awesome beta reader's suggestions! I've been looking forward to this chapter for months.

Julia52

The Comte offered a weak smile as he trudged behind Erik. I looked back at him once as we made our way to the lobby, but Erik nudged my shoulder and nodded ahead. I had no idea what had transpired and clearly neither man planned on explaining our strange new fellowship.

I cleaned my hand as best I could with cool water in the hotel lavatory just off the lobby while the Comte ordered his carriage and Erik sat alone outside. My hands trembled as I dried and dressed it once more, but thankfully the bleeding had stopped.

Drizzle had started once more when I walked out front and found Erik sitting with his head down and hands clasped in his lap. He had gone completely silent and I knew he needed a moment to himself. He needed to mourn what he had lost—even if he realized this wasn't what he wanted.

To my surprise, the Comte waited for me in the lobby with his hands clasped behind his back and an enigmatic smile on his face. He looked horribly drained, his face haggard.

"I wish to apologize to you, Madame," he said. "And compensate you for treatment," he added softly as he looked at my hand and wrinkled his nose.

"I've dealt with worse injuries," I answered.

He stared at me for a long moment as though wondering if it I spoke of wounds to myself.

"I was a nurse for a time," I explained.

He nodded, his eyes narrowed as he looked me over. "I'm sure you've seen much."

My eyes widened and I wondered if he dared to insult Erik. "I beg your pardon, Comte de Chagny, but what do you mean to insinuate?"

His mouth dropped open. "That was not my intent."

"Four nights ago I stitched up a horrible laceration to a man's head, which was likely your doing. What was most horrific about this wound was not that it was deep or covered previous scar material, Comte. What most disturbed me was that grown, gentile men who would otherwise consider themselves civil had no reservations about leaving their victim to die in an alley," I said tightly as I stepped toward him.

He held my gaze but didn't speak, which was fortunate for him.

"May I remind you, Monsieur Kire showed a great deal of undo mercy this evening considering the extent of his injuries at your hands?"

He looked taken aback by my words but didn't protest. "I have never engaged in such…cruelty before," he said, picking his words carefully. Regret passed through his gaze and he visibly shuddered.

"You seemed rather skilled at beating a man nearly to death."

"I had no idea he was injured so badly."

"Comte, I am no fool. What precisely did you think would happen when the odds were three men against one?"

He nodded and sighed. "You are correct, Madame. I sincerely regret my actions, especially seeing him now."

"Now?" I scoffed.

He lowered his gaze. "I meant to run him off not…kill him."

Drunken men were prone to ignorance, I wanted to say. This was something I knew painfully well. "I'm not the person to confess to, Comte."

Again he nodded. "I suspect he's told you of our past relations," he said. He grunted. "Or rather our boundless hatred and disrespect for one another."

Erik hadn't told me nearly as much as the Comte most likely assumed. I shrugged and waited for him to continue.

"He is not what I expected," he said, his voice low. He pursed his lips briefly. "He's…human, I suppose."

It seemed like an odd but fitting description considering the evening. I couldn't remember Erik mentioning Raoul de Chagny other than a derogatory '_the boy'_. All I had learned of this man came from the newspaper. In print, at least, he was a humanitarian with a thick pocketbook and boundless wealth stemming from his parents, who supported the arts and had put forth a great deal of money in hospitals and supporting orphans. If I were to believe the newspapers, this man was a saint, his wife was an angel, and Erik was dead.

"My wife has never hurt anyone before," he said suddenly. "At least not…other than…" he stammered.

His lips parted as though he wanted to elaborate, but he shook his head. I thought back to our original meeting in the lobby and knew he had much to hide from the world. Their lives would have been considerably different if the public knew of her illness. I had no doubt she had used her fits against him, both mentally and physically.

The carriage driver appeared and cleared his throat, which garnered the Comte's attention. He excused himself and I walked through the vacant lobby and toward Erik.

"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked as I sat beside him. There was something up against the outside of his thigh, but I didn't question him. I honestly didn't want to know.

"I just want to find Alex," I answered, stifling a yawn.

"It's very late."

"I don't want to argue with you, Erik. I just want to see Alexandre and know he is safe," I snapped.

A long moment passed before he put his arm around me and squeezed me tighter. "Julia, I am sorry for this," he said gently.

There would be time to apologize later, when we were both thinking with more clarity. "Don't be sorry. Just find him," I murmured, as I rested my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

Footsteps signaled the Comte's approach. He stood at a distance and waited for his carriage without making a sound. The rain had stopped, but it was cold and uncomfortably damp, which made me wonder why he chose to stand outside the carriage station.

No one spoke until we were inside the carriage and halfway down the street, though it hardly seemed uncomfortable. Erik stared at his clasped hands while the Comte gazed out the window, his expression sullen.

The Comte was the first to break the silence. "How is your hand…Madame?"

"Madame Louis Seuratti," I mumbled without thinking.

The Comte blinked at me. "You're a widow?" he asked, sounding surprised.

I felt Erik pull away from me before I answered with only a nod, hoping the Comte wouldn't question me further. After all I had witnessed, I wasn't sure who I was any longer; a widow, a mistress, or a neighbor caught in some hellish nightmare.

With no conversation forthcoming, I closed my tired eyes. I focused on Erik's breathing and the creak of the wheels and springs as the carriage lurched ahead. My hand throbbed and my head pounded. I couldn't remember ever feeling so drained in my life.

When the carriage paused, I woke with a start and rubbed my eyes. Erik looked sadly at me and asked one last time if I wanted to return home, but I refused. If anything were to happen to Alex, I didn't want these two men taking out their anger on one another.

The Comte exited first, followed by Erik who helped me out and made certain I stayed at his side. He walked stiffly, grimacing as he tested his legs after a much needed rest.

"This way," he said with a nod.

We had no choice but to follow Erik, who walked toward the building as though he still remembered every entrance, which I assumed he still did. He briskly rounded the corner and pressed me up against the building.

"Quiet," he whispered.

Gendarmes passed on horseback, too engaged in conversation to know we stood in the shadows. The Comte's eyes bulged from his head while Erik stood coolly, nonplussed by their presence.

Once they passed, he strolled forward and paused before the admission booth.

The opera house had been closed since the fire, its original beauty diminished to boarded-up rubble. In the faint light, I saw Erik look over the rotting wooden planks and posters nailed to the makeshift walls. He looked remorseful as he examined the remains of his past.

"This is the closest entrance," he said.

"To what?" I asked.

"The cellar," he mumbled as he reached into his coat and produced two taper candles.

The Comte and I exchanged looks.

"Compliments of the Wisteria," Erik answered as he lit both wicks and handed me one. The scent of sulfur made me wrinkle my nose as he blew out the match.

"I hadn't even thought of that," The Comte admitted. He lifted a board Erik had loosened and together we entered the abandoned building. "Are we…safe?"

"I have no idea," Erik answered.

It certainly didn't look or feel safe entering a building in ruins. Glass covered broken marble. Cobwebs clung to the high ceiling and along statues that had been broken in half or had cracked limbs strewn across the floor. Parts of chandeliers hung crooked within the lobby, threatening to crash down at any moment. The Comte stared warily as we stood beneath a smaller one.

"I'll walk first, then Julia and lastly you, Monsieur de Chagny," Erik said.

"Call me Raoul," he insisted nervously. He placed the board back as it was and peered ahead. "We've known each other, or at least of each other, long enough, I think."

The Comte walked gingerly across the floor, his gaze sweeping back and forth as though he expected the ground to slide out from underneath him. His cautious nature made it nearly impossible to look away.

"It smells…dead," I commented.

"Musty. The ceiling is damaged," Erik answered as he lifted his candle and looked around. "The fire weakened it."

Slowly we made our way up several steps and into the lobby. Birds squawked somewhere high above in unseen nests while rats scratched and scurried into hiding. I held my breath and momentarily froze. Debris fell from another chandelier and onto discarded seats from the auditorium.

"This way," Erik said as he led us through the arched doors.

I wished I had seen the theater in its prime, when operas and special performances took place nightly. The velvet curtain still hung down, though it was ragged and burned in spots. Some of the seats had survived, though they were rotting and covered in dust. It still smelled like a fire, which seemed odd considering how many years had passed since the disaster. Despite the devastation, a great deal had remained behind, both within the theater and outside.

I started toward the stage and glanced back, finding both men side by side. Neither of them looked at one another, but they both stared at the opera boxes.

The Comte shifted his gaze to Erik, who found him staring and frowned.

"It was the best view in the house," the Comte said under his breath. "I see why you favored it."

At Erik's prompting, he clopped across the damp carpeting thanks to a night of rain. When he looked down, he appeared disgusted.

"What a shame," the Comte mumbled.

Erik nodded before he strode toward me and motioned for me to pause. He stepped in front of me and stomped on the floor in various places before he stepped off stage and waited for us to catch up. I could still hear him pounding on the floor.

"Monsieur…Raoul, if you will," Erik said as he held open a narrow door leading to a spiral staircase.

I took one last look at the opera house from the stage. The orchestra pit was still filled with broken pieces of instruments as well as what looked like burnt props. Glass was scattered everywhere, as well as pieces of metal from where the chandelier had fallen on the final night. I looked up at the ceiling and the holes where rain dripped down.

We descended into a musty, cold level with pools of stagnant water on the stone floor. All three of us sloshed through, guided only by the meager candlelight. I walked slowly behind Erik, shivering at the temperature change as well as the surroundings. The theater itself was opulent; the level below dank and unwelcoming, like an underground prison.

The Comte broke the uneasy silence with a ragged sigh. "So now you know," he said, his voice echoing off the stone.

Erik glanced back but made no comment. There was nothing to say, only words needing to be heard from this man invited on a peculiar descent.

I ducked to avoid what looked like a stage prop of a tree and realized we were surrounded by artifacts from previous shows. There was scenery along the far wall, backdrops of a forest and part of what looked like a castle. Partially hidden behind the sets were jugs and glass bottles of wine, some of them still full.

"I suppose you now find there is nothing envious about my life. With _our_ life." The Comte sidled up alongside me and frowned. "She's not always this…sick. There are good days," he added quickly.

Erik briefly paused and looked over his shoulder. He looked annoyed but held his tongue and pressed forward. It surprised me that he made no attempt to silence him, and I wondered if it was curiosity on his part or if knowing the truth brought him peace.

"There have been…episodes…for a while, longer than you know. Of course no one really understood because she was a dancer. All dancers have their fits, and singers? Yes, when she was a young singer it was worse and no one was any wiser. She was a diva—she _is_ a diva. Her fits are expected." His voice turned low as if what he had to say had become a secret he was afraid to speak. "She's been ill for a while, even before she gave up Alexandre."

Erik abruptly paused, his lips a thin, straight line. "Watch your step, sir, before you fall into a hole."

The Comte froze, looking around the shadows, and I did the same.

"Holes?" I questioned. The ground looked solid enough.

"Trap doors," Erik said.

"Trap doors? But we aren't even near the stage."

"No, we're not," Erik agreed.

Knowing he wouldn't elaborate, I nodded and looked at the Comte, who appeared flustered because his cathartic moment had been interrupted.

"She was ill before she gave up her son?" I asked.

He nodded. "That made it worse for her, I think. She never told me why, but she disappeared for several months, which now I realize was because she was closer to Alex's birth. She was different when she returned." He paused and swallowed hard. "I accepted it without question…I was a fool."

Erik had stopped as well and stood with his hand on the door frame. He favored his right leg and grimaced when he put his full weight on it.

"Suzette's death, which you knew about, had the same effect. You did know of my daughter, didn't you?," the Comte pressed on, his attention on Erik. "She passed as an infant. In Africa. She would be seven this year."

"Madeline and Meg," Erik answered quietly.

I still remembered the night Erik had told me of this child's death, how heartbroken he was on behalf of a woman who had completely shut him out of her life. I knew little of their relationship back then, only that he had loved and lost his son's mother.

I had never expected this.

"Ah, of course. Madeline—or Madame Giry—it's difficult to call her by her first name. I saw the note you sent her, the one with the brown ink. Lemons, wasn't it?"

Erik merely lifted his chin. He didn't bother to glance in my direction.

"Very clever. I assume she did write you back, but who knows? What was I saying? Oh, Madame. Well she knew Christine's father. She knew how his sickness progressed and how…it was very difficult for Christine to see him bedridden."

"What happened to him?" I interrupted.

The Comte's lips parted and Erik finally looked at me.

"Smallpox," the Comte answered as he turned to Erik for clarification.

Erik nodded, his eyes cast down as listened to the Comte speak.

"If I remember correctly, there was a horrible outbreak and it claimed her younger siblings, then her father. It was perhaps six weeks at the most and they were all ill."

"Her mother?"

He sighed and looked at Erik, who shook his head as though he wasn't aware of the details.

"Christine was with her mother at the time, which saved her life. They were in Switzerland, I believe, and received word of the outbreak. Monsieur Daae begged her not to return and sent his love to his wife and daughter. She kept that letter for a long time," he said. "It disappeared perhaps six months ago and it bothered her greatly."

The Comte wiped his face with his hand. "Her mother returned to their family home upon his death. She was too stricken with grief to care for her daughter, which is how Christine found her way here." He looked around at the ceiling and cold stone walls, his gaze filled with overwhelming sadness. "I believe she was cared for after that in a…home," he answered uncomfortably. "At least that was what my parents explained."

Most likely she had ended up within an asylum, a woman driven to the brink of her sanity after the loss of her husband and smaller children. With her father and sibling dead, her mother despondent, and her disposal at the opera house, I had no doubt this had affected the Comte's wife. I suspected being sent to an unfamiliar place teeming with strangers was more than enough to drive a young girl mad.

"You've known her all of your life then?" I asked.

"We didn't see each other for many years, but we played together as small children. When I saw her again here…it brought back memories." The Comte cleared his throat and continued. "Before that summer, she was happy. A vibrant girl, Little Lotte, bright-eyed and just simply happy to run around and cause trouble. That's how I remembered her." He pursed his lips. "That's how I will always remember her."

I stared ahead and watched Erik. He had turned away from us, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. He walked down the first steps of a spiral staircase and mumbled for us to make haste.

Rats darted past us and I swallowed a scream. The air smelled of vermin, the stench so overpowering I held my sleeve over my nose.

"When she started all this nonsense about her father sending an Angel of Music I just assumed it was something she dreamed up. If you had known her back then you would have known she had quite an imagination. Always saying she heard brownies in the attic—the Green Man—have you heard of the Green Man?"

Erik only nodded. His complete silence made it impossible to tell if he welcomed or dreaded these memories, these little moments of Christine's life the Comte willingly shared. I wondered how much of what the Comte shared he already knew.

"Yes, yes, she was very fond of the Green Man, faeries, anything at all. So the Angel of Music was just one of those little tales. But then she swore that this thing—this _angel_—was a real person, a real man who lived behind the glass. And he was strict!" He chuckled, though it sounded nervous. "Very strict, she said to me with this stern expression.

"But I didn't say anything because it upset her when anyone told her something wasn't real. She needed to have her father send an angel, I suppose, some ethereal being to make her feel like she wasn't alone. It's really quite sad, this beautiful little girl living a strange dream."

"You blame Erik for this?" I chimed in. My tone gave away my complete and utter boredom on his monologue regarding Christine.

Erik met my eye but didn't speak. He looked at me strangely, as though it came as a complete shock that I had defended him.

"No," the Comte said quickly. "He never intended to hurt her. Even when I hoped to save her from something evil, I knew in my heart he would never put her in harm's way. He had no way of knowing. She hid it well for fear of being sent away."

It made me wonder if she knew what had happened to her mother. The opera house had to be more appealing to her than the thought of being committed to an asylum.

The Comte looked Erik in the eye when he spoke. "You never knew she was so devastated by her father's death. You knew she was lonely, I think, but you didn't know she…was ill, did you?"

Erik solemnly shook his head. He turned so that I only saw the unmasked side of his face and the vacant look in his eye. For many years I had wondered what had drawn him to her in the first place, what had started this madness and obsession, and now I knew.

He had come to her because she was alone. Perhaps in her suffering he saw part of himself, and in curing her loneliness he wished to alleviate his own. In his overwhelming despair, he had wanted to save her from the fate he'd been assigned.

That was why he couldn't walk away from her; it was as though leaving her made him abandon himself. He had continued to search for the broken pieces of his heart, still drawn to her, still needing to repair something he simply couldn't fix. Neither man was capable of mending Christine.

"I didn't know the extent," Erik replied.

"There are days when I still don't know the extent," the Comte replied.

No one spoke as we trudged ahead. The further we traveled into the opera house vaults, the more spiders, millipedes, and rats appeared at our feet and within the crevices of broken and uneven stones.

The Comte cleared his throat after a while. He coughed into his sleeve as the air thickened with dampness, while I covered my face with my hand and attempted to block out the smell.

"I don't want your pity," the Comte said suddenly.

Erik stopped and stared at him again, just as he had done before. He nodded once, then sighed, his patience waning.

"You don't want my pity and I don't want yours," the Comte continued. "I didn't tell you this for you to feel sorry for us. I love her. With all of my heart, I do love her and I would never, ever abandon her. She needs me, I think. She needs someone to watch over her."

He spoke with melancholy fondness for her. I had stayed with Louis because I was too afraid to leave and when I looked at the Comte, I wondered if he had similar feelings. Perhaps he feared walking out on her would ruin her.

"And she's not a bad person…she's not." His voice trailed off and I wondered how many more years he could continue at this destructive pace. Eventually she would either harm him severely or injure their children. "Deep in her soul she is good. She gets confused. When she takes her medicine, when she's…."

He wiped his glassy eyes and inhaled sharply. "She's everything to me," he finished at last.

His words saddened me. I looked away and frowned, knowing precisely what it felt like to want something more.

We walked awhile in silence until I was certain we would never see sunlight again. I had no idea how Alex would have ever found his way into this maze nor what would have driven him into this abyss.

"How do you know he's been here?" I asked.

"He is," Erik said with more certainty than I expected. He rounded yet another corner, his pace quickening. How he managed to navigate his way through the cellars I had no idea, especially after ten years. Each cellar looked exactly like the one above it, aside from different inhabitance lurking in shadows and scurrying past our feet.

The Comte exhaled sharply, the sound echoing through the cold stone confines. "I'm surprised."

"By?" Erik asked after a long silence. Despite speaking a single word, I knew he was irritated by the Comte's constant rambling. He stood rigid, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

He looked away from Erik and visibly swallowed. His cheeks flushed when he spoke. "I expected you would gloat or use this against us."

"He is not spiteful," I snapped. The moment I spoke I regretted my words, especially when I looked at the Comte and saw him standing with his head bowed. He expected humiliation from the man he considered his enemy.

"Serves no purpose," Erik said under his breath. He glanced at me and offered a faint smile as though hoping for my approval.

My candle had dwindled down to a stub and I held it at an angle to allow the wax to drip down. It seemed as though we should have been in the center of the earth judging by how long it had taken us to travel down each flight of narrow stairs and through long, winding tunnels.

"Are we close?" I asked.

Erik nodded. "We're here."

He ducked through a doorway I hadn't noticed and the Comte slowly followed into the abyss. He peered around the cellar with its cobwebs and damp stone ceiling and shook his head.

"I had forgotten this place," he said, his voice low. "Forgotten it almost completely."

"What is this?" I asked. It looked like a tomb, the least likely place to find Alexandre. We would have never found it without Erik guiding the way, which made it seem entirely impossible for a boy to discover it on his own.

The Comte didn't look at me when he spoke. "This is where he lived. This was his…kingdom beneath the opera house."

The thought made shudder. I held out the candle and ducked through the doorway, peering into the Phantom's lair.

Despite all of the accounts of a man who lived beneath the opera house, I had always thought it was an outrageous tale. Perhaps it was because Erik seemed to enjoy his room on the second level where he could survey the night at will that I refused to believe he would ever live literally beneath the earth. I expected he hid in a back room, distanced from the other people who lived within the theater but not so far removed.

My heart ached for him, for the years he'd spent in complete solitude. There was no sign of human life in this place, no sounds from the orchestra pit or stage as they were too far above us. This was a place to dwell alone, to remain unbothered and undiscovered.

I doubted anyone bothered to travel past the second cellar where incinerators had once burned day and night. He was perfectly hidden away from world, five levels beneath humanity.

Standing there, I knew why he was so terribly awkward during our first meetings, why he initially struggled to hold a conversation. There had been no one in his life. This talented, shy, mysterious man had chosen this place over ridicule—and it was all based on his appearance.

The depths of his loneliness were far greater than I had ever imagined and I understood what it meant for me to remove his mask, to take away what he had always hidden. He had fought for his dignity more than a shield.

"Madame? Are you unwell?" the Comte questioned. He clutched my elbow and I realized I was leaning against the wall. I quickly pulled away and he stepped back, allowing me into the shadowy caverns Erik had called his home.

"Did you know?" the Comte questioned, his eyes narrowed.

I failed to answer. The moment I looked up, I spotted Alex sitting far in the distance with his back to us and Erik standing behind him, paralyzed by the sight of his son.

"Oh, thank God," I whispered, feeling as though I could breathe at last.


	53. The Lakeside Apartments

In AHTW Erik and Alex have a huge father/son moment, so of course Julia and Raoul are completely out of the picture. Given that Raoul has five cellars worth of dialog in the previous chapter, he still has a lot to say and Julia has a lot to learn. Please leave feedback for this chapter!

Julia53

The opera fire had not reached the cellars, which was evident as it was constructed of stone. The portion Erik had called his own, however, was an entirely different disaster.

My first thought was that it was fit for a hog, as clutter consumed every corner. There were drawings, framed and loosely scattered about, towers of precariously perched notes and stacks of music, books, statues…anything conceivable was stuffed into the room. There were wooden boxes stacked to the ceiling and reams of fabric propped up against the wall.

I wandered inside and looked around, wondering how closely this resembled his current bedroom, which I had never seen. For such a well-dressed man, he had once lived like a rat.

Oil paintings and chalk drawings garnered my attention. I felt strangely voyeuristic as I lifted one drawing from the table and examined the careful details, then glanced at the one beneath it.

Amongst his collection there were set designs, costumes, and sketches of Christine in various costumes. He'd drawn perfume bottles, vases of flowers, and a garden with a fountain in the middle. Beneath the still life drawings was another pile dedicated to Christine.

Within this dark and damp place, he had dedicated his time alone to memorizing her image and writing his music. It was well-furnished and somewhat eccentric, which I expected from him, but it was eerily alone and silent, more of a tomb than a home.

I had not stood within his private apartments for more than ten minutes and already I missed the warmth of sunlight and fresh air. I couldn't imagine spending two decades confined to this place, chained to only fruitless desire.

How he'd survived exile—self-imposed or not—I couldn't imagine.

His adoration for Christine, however, was evident in ever stroke of the brush and smudge of charcoal. In perfect, careful penmanship he had written her name.

Strangely, however, she was always drawn alone. Not once had he ever placed himself next to her. It was as though in her shining beauty he simply didn't exist.

Perhaps he had always known there was no place for him.

I held my breath and took in his former life, these images of the man he'd been long before we met. Some were pleasant details, simple musings I thought were merely to pass time. Others, however, were slashes and dark colors, angry notions. Once I reached a series of drawings depicting a woman draped in black, I paused and recoiled. I didn't need to delve further. I knew exactly who this woman was. Just the sight of her made me shudder.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the Comte slowly make his way toward where Erik stood. I cleared my throat and he turned to look at me.

"Let him do this," I whispered. The acoustics made my voice much louder than I expected. He nodded and retreated into the corner where he stood beside a shattered oval mirror. Alex glanced back at me, his eyes wide. I watched for a moment as Erik sat beside him, then I turned away, allowing them privacy.

"I wanted to see her," Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Did you see her?" Erik asked.

I didn't hear Alex reply. My heart ached for him and what he had witnessed, but it was more than that. There was so much he didn't know, so many tender moments only a mother could share with her child. I suspected he had gone looking for answers as to why she had left him behind and why she had never contacted him.

"When?" Erik asked gently. I wondered if he had used up all of his anger in confronting the de Chagnys.

"The night you saw her," Alex answered reluctantly.

The same night he had undoubtedly saved Erik's life. I imagined in that moment of seeing three men escort his father into an alley and beat him so badly he lost consciousness, Alex had not only permanently lost his mother, but had grown up considerably.

"And two days ago," Alex answered.

"The night the vicomte came to the house?" Erik asked.

His voice dropped so low I couldn't hear what he said, but it didn't matter. I was beside myself, sick to my stomach thinking of what he had endured.

For the past four days, I had concerned myself with Erik when I wished I had provided more comfort to Alexandre. He didn't deserve to be pushed aside when he had no choice in this matter.

"Your mother has been very ill," Erik said to him. He didn't attempt to make excuses, but there was sadness in his voice as he admitted it aloud.

"She didn't look sick," Alex argued.

"Sometimes, when people are very, very ill, they look perfectly fine. It's worse that way, Alex, sometimes it's much worse that way."

There were many days when I had been forced to act as though my life were flawless. Louis and I attended dinner parties with him playing the charming husband and myself cast as his adoring, demure wife. Those nights were always a sickening performance, though we had managed to fool everyone around us. No one ever realized when I asked him to stop drinking it was because I feared for my life, not for his headaches the following morning.

On the outside we looked fine, but behind closed doors there was illness spreading.

"Are you sure I'm her son?" he asked suddenly, twisting around to look Erik in the eye. "She didn't know who I was, Father. She said she never had a son."

I frowned and turned away, finding the Comte directly behind me. He ushered me from the room and into what served as a hallway and we stood in silence.

"Did you know?" he asked quietly.

I looked up at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you know of this place?" he clarified.

I was too tired to lie or make excuses. "I never asked," I said, being more honest than I had intended. I knew he had lived within the opera house, but he had never divulged exactly where and I had not asked.

"It's quite impressive to think this man took it upon himself to move an entire lot of furniture, an organ, a wardrobe fit for an entire cast...he built a small empire underground."

He peered inside, seemingly impressed by the amount of effort Erik had put into his lakeside home.

"A damned fine job," he said with a shake of his head. "A musical genius, a builder…all those years of talent wasted."

"Because he was not allowed to live above it," I said bitterly.

Erik wanted no pity, but he deserved to be recognized for his good qualities, not just his faults. He was successful as a composer, but as far as I knew he had never attended one of his own operas—at least not since the opera disaster. The only music he heard was the orchestra he played in his head, hummed in the night as he tested the melodies alone. It seemed like torture for a man so consumed by song to never hear it for himself in an opera house.

The Comte stared at me for a long moment. "From what I understand, it was his choosing to stay here."

"Your understanding?" I scoffed. "And what precisely is your understanding, Comte?"

"Madame Seuratti, I have bared the deepest secrets of my soul tonight. Trust that I do not offer judgment on this man."

At once I felt terribly defensive. "My apologies."

His features softened. "Seeing him now I have no desire or reason to hate him. He is a man concerned for the wellbeing of his family, which honestly makes us more similar than different."

I could only imagine what Erik would have said to that.

"How do you know he chose to live here?" I asked, curbing my tone.

It bothered me that the Comte de Chagny, who had hated Erik more than anyone in the world, seemed to know him better than I did.

He took a deep breath. "Madame Giry," he answered. "She took in Christine and well before that, from what I understand, Monsieur Kire…Erik. She never called him by a last name, only the mysterious, troubled Erik."

Living beneath am opera house hardly seemed like being 'taken in'.

"Of course back then she swore she knew nothing of the famous opera ghost for fear of incriminating him, I suppose," he said quietly.

I nodded. "She is very protective of him."

"Yes, I suspect she is. In secret she told me of how she had first met him in the traveling fair, and that has to be over thirty years ago now." He rolled his tongue along the inside of his mouth. "Being confined to a cage could drive a man into darkness, and then of course how he escaped from the Orient. He sought refuge from the world, Madame, and here he found it—with her help."

In Erik's recounting he had left the Orient on terms that were not ideally his own. _Escaped_ sounded far more alarming—and so much more like this man I loved.

"Madame Giry always cared a great deal about him, perhaps more than anyone in his life. Back then I wondered why she wanted to protect him, but she saw him in a way no one else had."

In five years, I had never pressed him to tell me of his life before I knew him, though in the same token I had no desire to speak of my own past. With Louis' untimely death had come a barrage of unexpected debts. The last thing on my mind was burdening this reserved musician with my sorrows, especially when I wanted to forget the rest of my life whenever he was near.

My siblings never visited and rarely wrote to me, my cousin Anthony was pleasant enough, though was concerned for my every move, and my uncle most likely would have disowned me for speaking of Erik Kire, much less any other activity.

He was my fantastic escape, a sensual mystery who opened my heart with melody and filled my mind with his deep voice yet soft words. Long before he ever touched me, I felt as though he knew me intimately.

"He's a very private person," I said, merely to speak. "He allows few people to know him."

Madame Giry had also helped him remain a private person by denying he existed. I wasn't sure if she truly helped him or if she stilted him further.

The Comte shrugged. "He is very fond of his son," he said. "And of you as well."

I smiled at his words, glad that he had seen a different side of Erik, a compassionate side.

The Comte peered around the darkened hall and inhaled sharply. "When I saw him in my hotel room the other night, I had no idea he was still alive—or at least I tried to convince myself he had perished."

My breath caught in my throat. I remembered seeing the headline in the paper weeks after the opera fire. It was shortly after Madame Giry and Meg had taken up residence behind our house. _Erik is Dead_, the column stated. Louis had found it humorous. I remembered it merely because I found it sad for this person to die and have nothing else written of him.

"No…no I knew he wasn't dead." The Comte looked away from me. "I honestly hoped to never see him again, but the moment we returned to Paris, I had a feeling he would emerge."

"I had hoped you and your wife wouldn't return," I said.

He looked sadly at me. "I expected to see a man in the distance at her performance, perhaps a shadow in the night…a voice in my head. A coward, that's what I expected, but there he was in my hotel bedroom with my wife, bold as ever."

I knew I blanched at his words. "That's where you found them?"

"It was him alone," he explained. "But when I entered the hotel room, my daughter met me at the door and said a man in a mask had come for her mother. Bella thought it was the angel who had taken her sister. I stormed into the bedroom and there he was, calm as could be."

"And that's why you…went after him?" I asked. In all honesty, it made perfect sense for the Comte to nearly beat to death a man found in his hotel room in the middle of the night. I hated to admit it, but the Comte had every reason to be rid of Erik. I could only imagine Erik would have done much worse if their roles had been reversed.

He frowned. "I knew why he was there—or thought I did. When I saw Alexandre for the first time, I didn't know what to believe." He shook his head. "But Monsieur Kire…he is not the type of man who would merely leave without incident."

I nodded. He was correct.

Awkward silence followed and together we both looked into the lakeside apartments.

"She promised I could go with her and her husband and their daughters," Alexandre said. "I told her I would have to ask you first even though I knew you would tell me absolutely not. When I told her, she was very, very cross with me, Father."

Erik stiffened and reached for Alex. He placed his hand on his shoulder, his voice booming. "What did she do to you? Did she hurt you? Look at me, Alex, did she bruise you?"

"She yelled at me and told me you never wanted me. She said if I told her I never loved you she would take me to Egypt."

Erik turned his face away and found me in the doorway. I nodded and stepped out again, bumping into the Comte, who was looking over my shoulder.

I couldn't imagine using a boy as a pawn the way Christine apparently had intended. All things considered, I doubted she knew her intentions.

"Alex—" Erik started.

"She's mean!" Alex shouted. His voice shook with emotion, his face twisted as he fought to keep his composure. "Why didn't you tell me she was so mean?"

The Comte grunted and I looked over my shoulder at him. "I honestly wish he had never seen her, for his own sake. She is not in the frame of mind to welcome him as she should have."

"How would she have welcomed him?" I asked. "In the ideal frame of mind? She left him on the doorstep, Comte."

"I wish she never would have given him up," he answered truthfully. "I would like to think if she had been truthful, I still would have raised him as my own."

If Christine had done nothing else, she had saved Erik's life by giving him his son. Alex had given Erik a conscious, a reason to be a man rather than a ghost haunting a cellar. Perhaps it wasn't her intention, but she had saved him from this place.

"Did you see Alex with her?" I whispered back.

"Briefly," he said, seeming embarrassed for his wife. "I mostly heard her yelling and thought she was with our daughters. When she spoke with such cruelty, I went in to usher the girls out and there he was." The Comte bowed his head. "Forgive me for saying this, but I honestly thought my girls were surrounded by love and that this child, Alex, would have lived a life of misery."

"He has never laid a hand on him," I assured him.

The Comte's lips parted, but he didn't continue.

"I cannot make you love her," Erik said softly to Alex. His voice garnered my attention once more.

"I won't," he blurted out, his voice choked by tears. "Not ever, not for as long as I live."

"Listen to me, Alex, I cannot make you love her, but I want you to try to forgive her."

"Why?" Alex sniffled.

I closed my eyes and pursed my lips. Erik was the last person I expected to speak of forgiveness as he was a man who anticipated being met with hatred and showed little tolerance for others.

Erik was silent for a long moment and I wondered if he would change his mind. At last he sighed. "Because…because everyone, no matter what they have done, should be allowed to find forgiveness. Finding a way to forgive someone, even when they have hurt you, that is truly a remarkable gift."

"She wanted that man to kill you. How can you forgive her?" Alexandre pressed. "How can you forgive that man?"

He was so much like Erik, more so than I had realized. They were both combative by nature, always challenging an idea. Alex lacked his father's cynicism, but he was curious and insatiable.

"I don't want to be angry with her," he explained.

"And that man?" Alex said, spitting out his words.

I didn't dare look back at the Comte.

"It will undoubtedly take some time, Alex, but I am in need of forgiveness as well."

Alex looked perplexed. "Why?"

"I loved her very much; even when she was very ill and I didn't know it. I said and did many things I should not have done."

The Comte muttered something under his breath and I looked at him. He shook his head and turned away, which made me wonder if he regretted returning to this place.

"I was not well, either," Erik finished. "And I was not kind."

"Father, are you feeling better now?" Alex asked, his words filled with concern.

Erik chuckled softly. He needed Alex so badly in his life and in that moment, when they sat beside one another, I hoped he realized what he had almost lost in chasing Christine.

"I think I am feeling better. I have you, Madeline, and Madame Seuratti to thank for that, and perhaps Madame and Monsieur Lowry as well."

In the middle of the night, in the darkest place on earth, he had finally realized he wasn't alone.

"What about Bessie?" Alex asked suddenly.

I smiled at their exchange, finding myself surprised Erik hadn't mentioned the dog first.

"She is important as well," Erik agreed.

In all the moments Erik would have been hardened and angry, Alex forced him to see the world from his perspective. He was truly the heart Erik almost forgot he had.

Erik reached out and gently ran his fingers along Alex's cheek. He looked at him with such tenderness and pursed his lips.

"Alex," he said, his voice low and trembling. "Will you forgive me?"

Alex sat a little straighter. "I am the one who ran away," he admitted as he bowed his head. "Not you."

"Alex— "

"Will you forgive me, Father?"

"If there are any flaws within you, there are mine," Erik said softly. He went silent, but his shoulders trembled with emotion.

"Grand-mere says you are not fond of people, but you do like us, don't you, Father?" Alex asked. Despite what he had seen, he still remained innocent, still hopeful for his father's approval.

Erik took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, I do, Alex," he said. "With more of my heart than I ever knew existed."

I peeked inside once more and saw them face one another. Despite the late hour and the circumstances, Erik looked more at ease than he had in months.

"How is your real face?" Alex asked.

Erik tilted his head down. "Quite bruised still," he answered, his voice lower than before.

Slowly Alex reached up toward his father's face and I held my breath, waiting for the deciding moment when Erik would either allow his son to touch his face or turn away from him completely.

"Alex, the skin will never—"

"I don't really like the fake skin. It's cold," Alex blurted out.

Erik hesitated, his posture suddenly rigid. He had never been accepted with his real skin; I couldn't imagine how he felt having Alex tell him he didn't like the mask.

"You're like a snake," Alex mumbled.

I inhaled sharply. Only Alexandre would say such a thing and mean it as a sincere compliment.

"I beg your pardon?" Erik said, sounding mortified by his son's words.

"You're like a snake," he repeated, clearly seeing no reason to retract his words. "You shed your skin."

The child looked quite proud of himself, though Erik appeared concerned.

"The skin beneath the mask doesn't change though, Alex. It always looks…the same."

He sounded disappointed when he spoke. I wished he had known that it was human nature to see one's reflection and feel dissatisfied on occasion. He was not the only one in the world who looked into a mirror and felt as though there was too much or too little. There was more to him than just a face; it was the reason why I had come with him and why Alexandre sat before him, comforted by his presence.

"But the snake doesn't change that much, either. It grows, but it's still the same," Alex pointed out. He made it sound as though his father should have already known this, which earned him a pointed look from Erik. "Monsieur Lowry told me. He said we could go to the zoo one day and see one. Monsieur Lowry said that what's underneath is always better."

"I see then," Erik said under his breath, sounding completely unconvinced.

"Father," Alex said nervously. "I like your real skin better than the fake skin. It's warmer."

Tears dampened my eyes. I knew that until now Alex had never seen him without the mask and that Erik was terribly concerned with the opinions of others. More than anything, he feared his son's rejection. In childhood, Erik had been neglected by his parents, as an adult he'd been shunned for his appearance. If Alex looked at him in horror, he would be devastated.

"Father?" Alex asked again. His eyes filled with grave concern and I wondered if Erik knew how badly Alex also needed his approval.

"Yes, Alexandre?" Erik asked. He had turned away, but I could tell by his tone that he struggled to continue their conversation.

"Why do you like the fake skin?"

"It's more aesthetically pleasing," Erik said. He kept his back to Alex and fidgeted for a moment. I expected him to grumble and tell Alex it was time they left, but instead he reached up. He pressed his fingers to the leather covering. A shudder rattled through him before he slid his fingers beneath the mask and pulled it off. He stared at it for several seconds, then set it onto the table. "It was easier before," he said at last.

"When you weren't feeling well?"

"Yes, when I wasn't feeling well."

"So now that you feel better….do you need it?"

At last Erik turned to face him, though he kept his eyes closed as he waited for rejection. "I suppose not."

Alex studied him only briefly. I wished Erik had seen the look on Alex's face when he saw him then, how he showed no hint of horror or fear. When he looked at his father, he looked relieved. After everything Alex had witnessed, I had no doubt he was happy to still have his father alive.

At last Erik opened his eyes and Alex's smile widened. He flung his arms around his father and held him tight, undoubtedly relieved to have him there.

I heard the Comte release a deep, shuddering breath. From the corner of my eye, I saw him wipe his face.

"Comte?" I questioned.

He quickly dried his eyes and forced a smile. "That is his son," he said firmly. "And his son only."


	54. True Happiness

This chapter took several rewrites to finally get right, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Also, this chapter wouldn't have had the same emotion and tone without Jax helping to edit and making so many suggestions that brought out a lot of background and insight into Julia. Your thoughts are appreciated, as always.

Julia54

I started to enter the apartment with the Comte at my heels when Alex looked at us and gasped.

"He's followed us!" he shouted as he turned to Erik and frantically clutched his waistcoat.

When I looked back, the Comte appeared absolutely mortified. I doubted anyone had ever gazed upon him in sheer horror and I knew instantly he wished to back away.

"He's got her! Father, he's got Madame Seuratti!" Alex shouted. "He will kill her! Please, we must save her from him!"

I gave Erik a pleading look and shook my head. The Comte dealt with enough outbursts from his wife and I doubted he wanted to involve himself in another one from Alex.

"He came with us," Erik replied as he held Alex to him. "He means no harm. We have a truce."

"A what?"

Erik furrowed his brow as though he couldn't believe his son didn't know the meaning of the word. "We have a peace agreement. He came down with us to help find you."

"Why would he do that?" Alex asked as though the idea were horrific. With his face scrunched up, he glared at the Comte and balled his hands into fists as though prepared to fight him.

"Because we agreed to find you together," Erik said with unimaginable calm.

"But he tried to _kill_ you," Alex said almost breathlessly. He had a savage, untrusting look about him, which didn't at all suit a boy his age.

"Well, that was days ago," Erik answered with quite a bit of sarcasm.

His tone made it difficult to tell if his words were meant to take the edge off the situation or if he was becoming agitated.

The Comte exhaled hard and looked around, evidentially effected by Erik's dry humor. He didn't say a word, but I could tell by his expression that he considered finding his own way out.

"Alex is just…nervous," I said gently. "I suspect anyone would be a little cautious considering what he's gone through."

"Which was my doing," he admitted. "I'll wait here," the Comte said as he took a step back, concealing himself within the shadows.

"Do you wish to speak with him still?" I asked.

He appeared twisted, torn by the options set before him. Even if he admitted Alex belonged to Erik, this was still Christine's son, if only by birthright.

By dawn the Comte would be with his daughters and his wife, returned to their secret hell with the woman who had chosen him.

They were a young enough family to bear more children, though I doubted the Comte considered another baby with his wife's condition.

I had no doubt he loved his wife with all of his heart and adored his children, but he was the lone male and the end of his family name.

Alex would never accept him as a father, but perhaps he could at least have peace in seeing Christine's son and knowing this boy thrived in a way he never would if he was forced to stay with his mother.

"I would," he replied at last. "Alone, if I may." He took a deep breath and tapped his fingers together. "Or perhaps in your company, Madame, as the mediator."

In other words, he wanted to see Alex without Erik interfering.

"A moment, please," I said, knowing Erik would disagree before I asked him.

Before Alex could further question his father, I ran toward him and engulfed him in my arms where I nearly lifted him from the ground.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, running my fingers through his dark hair and smoothing his shirt collar.

He shook his head, then gave me a very serious look in the eye. "I may have stubbed my toe," he said. "And a spider fell on me, though I don't know if it was poisonous."

His words made me smile, and as I checked him over thoroughly, he seemed no worse for wear. He held me tight and suffered through a dozen kisses and overbearing concern only women were capable of providing children. He blushed, seemingly embarrassed by my doting.

When he looked up at me and smiled, I saw in him my son. Perhaps he wasn't mine by birth, but I felt a deep sense of responsibility for his wellbeing. He needed a mother in his life—and Erik needed someone there for himself as well as his son.

Looking at Alex, I wanted to be that person, for both this child who had no choice in being raised without a mother and a man who felt he had no choice but to raise his son alone.

Erik stepped away and I noticed him glancing between Alex and the Comte, who had dared to peek around the corner. He was looking for similarities, I knew, reasons to doubt or confirm Alex was his son not only by name, but by blood.

"He would like to see Alexandre," I said, keeping my tone even.

Erik stared at me, his expression blank as he waited for the Comte to enter.

I took a breath. "The Comte de Chagny requested to have me stay with them, however, we thought it would be best if you—"

His eyes filled with fury, his mouth twisted with anger. "Absolutely not. I will not have him—"

"Erik, for God's sake, Raoul is not going to toss Alex over his shoulder and run away with him," I tried to reason, knowing I had set myself up against an unreasonable man. "I've spoken to him in the hallway while you were with Alex and came to an agreement."

"I agreed to nothing!" he seethed.

Alex looked up at me as he took a step back, clearly concerned with the idea of being parted from his father, if even for a moment. He stared at me as though I had betrayed him.

"You agreed to let him come down here to find Alexandre," I said, turning my attention back to Erik. "Raoul simply wants to see Alex, nothing more. He gave you ample time with your son. Let him at least speak with him, just this once."

"I owe him nothing," he said through his teeth as he pointed his finger toward the apartment entrance. "Why in the hell are you using his given name? Friendly with him, are you?"

His display was worthy of an eye roll, but I did my best to remain civil. Once he was in his mood, there was no way of stopping him from his display, which was all it ever amounted to with him. All I could do was meet his fury with carefully chosen words and wait until he listened to reason—which he eventually would once he either exhausted himself or realized how absurd his argument was over nothing.

He had once spent the better part of an evening gathering every point he could think of about why Luc Testan was a horrible critic who should have retired. In the end he likened him to his least favorite dessert—an apple tart. His comparison had me laughing so hard he stood and walked out, only to return a moment later for his hat…and shortbread cookies. I never made apple tarts after that night.

Eventually he would calm himself down—or so I hoped, as this was neither about food nor critics.

"Do you honestly think that question deserves an answer?" I asked.

He was still breathing hard, but, seeing my calm, he had backed down.

"After everything that has happened, I think you know where I stand." I tilted my head to the side and looked down my nose at him for his foolish notions.

I started to reach for Alex, but he immediately panicked and flung himself onto his father. Erik's face contorted with the onset of pain, but he suffered through his son's assault and held him close.

"Father, please don't let that man take me away," Alex pleaded.

"Alex—" I started to say.

Erik narrowed his eyes at me, clearly still furious with the idea of his son speaking with the Comte. I paused, knowing if it had been my daughter, I would have been skeptical as well.

His gaze left mine and he searched the room as though he suddenly found himself trapped.

Too many times before his hand had been forced—he would not allow anyone to make a decision on his behalf. Ten years prior he had stood within these apartments across from Raoul de Chagny and that had not ended well for him, or rather how he had hoped.

Now, however, he had the advantage, the ability to deny the Comte the opportunity to speak with Alex. This time Erik could leave accompanied by someone he loved while the Comte returned home alone.

"This is your choice," I told him. "Whatever you decide, I will respect."

He exhaled hard. "My choice indeed," he muttered under his breath. He looked to his son and nodded. "Madame Seuratti will stay with you," he said.

Alex looked wild with fear. "Where will you be?" he asked frantically, still clutching Erik as though he sincerely thought he would never see him again.

"Right here," Erik said, mastering calm. "I'll be right here for you."

Alex hesitated and bit his lip. "I hit him with a rock. Intentionally."

"Yes, I know."

"He won't be very happy, Father."

"No, he won't. But I think he will forgive you." Erik placed his palm on Alex's head and ran his fingers through the dark curls.

Alexandre made a face. "Do I have to ask him?"

At last Erik smiled down at him. "If you wish to have him forgive you. As a gentleman, I require you to be civil to him. He is a man to be respected."

"Do you respect him?" Alex asked.

_Dear God_, I thought. I wasn't sure I wanted Erik to answer that question.

"I pride myself on being a gentleman," Erik replied as he nudged Alex to me. He met my eye, his gaze hardened and untrusting. "Go with Madame Seuratti. She will stay with you."

Alex looked back at Erik one last time before he reluctantly followed me.

"You won't let him hurt Father, will you?" Alex asked me.

"He won't hurt anyone, Alex," I reassured.

"How do you know?"

"He only wishes to speak with you. Trust me, he means no harm."

He clutched my cloak and nodded. "I will try to trust you…and him," he said under his breath.

The Comte stood silently waiting for us, a look of shock on his face when I entered with Alex, who stood rigid at my side. The Comte forced a smile and knelt before Alex in order to look him in the eye. Tall for his age, Alex towered over him and furrowed his brow, confused by the Comte's actions.

"You are a very fortunate young man," the Comte said.

Alex examined him closely for a long moment, his nose wrinkled in repulsion and his hands balled into tight fists. His silence concerned me as there was no telling what he would say or how it would say it, as Erik allowed him to speak his mind freely without consequence.

"I am," Alex said. "I am fortunate you didn't kill my father."

"Alex," I warned.

The Comte held up a hand. "No, no, he is correct. Those were not the actions of a gentleman. I regret what I did and am ashamed of what you saw, young Monsieur Kire."

"It was awful," Alex said quietly. "I thought I would never see him again. I thought you would _murder_ him."

Raoul started to reach out to Alex but stopped himself and balled his hand into a fist, which he lowered to his knee. "Your father is a talented composer, did you know that?"

"Yes," Alex said. "Grand-mere said he is the best composer ever."

"Your grand-mere?" His gaze flickered to mine.

"Madame Giry," Alex said as though it were obvious. "My grand-mere."

The Comte nodded and smiled fondly. "Of course. You are very fortunate to have her as well. I knew her many years ago."

"You did?" Alex questioned, his eyes growing large.

"Indeed. She is a very kind woman."

Alex appeared skeptical. "She's very strict," he groaned. "She thinks any time I leap off the stairs and over the dog that I'll break my neck, but I've done it half a million times and I only once landed wrong."

As was his nature, Alex began a dissertation on the fine art of jumping over a dog. This was the difference between Alex and Erik; whereas Alex could speak of any subject for hours at a time, Erik was reserved. Critics, music, and occasionally food made him talkative, but he was a quiet man.

The Comte looked up at me and smiled, then nodded and humored Alex a moment longer with his story.

My candle burned down to the smallest of stumps, the hall becoming increasingly dark. With the puddle of wax at my feet seemingly larger than the remaining taper, I looked to the Comte, whose own candle was nearing the same fate.

"Half a moment," I said.

He nodded readily while Alex continued chattering about how he nearly made Madame Giry faint dead on a daily basis.

I quietly excused myself and decided to find Erik, whom I suspected stood directly outside the doorway listening to every word.

When I didn't find him eavesdropping, I padded into the apartment and started toward a room filled with the soft glow of candlelight. I pushed aside the curtain and found him standing in a small space crowded with furniture.

He faced away from me, but he clutched something to his chest, which I at first suspected was another relic from Christine. Disappointed, I started to turn away and leave him with his final goodbyes, but his voice startled me.

"Everything would have been different," he whispered, his tone low and trembling.

He breathed hard, his emotions teetering as he stood with his shoulders hunched, defeated by some long ago demon. He brought his hand toward his face and I saw what appeared to be the figurine of a child. Eyes narrowed, I watched him, wondering what memory had trapped him this time. There honestly didn't seem like enough room within one person to harbor so much anguish.

"Why couldn't you kiss me once? Why did you run from me, Mother?"

I held my breath and heard him sob once. The intimacy of the moment broke my heart and sent goosebumps down my arms. He took a shuddering breath and wiped his hand over his face before he straightened and placed the object back onto the dresser into a small, dust-covered wax cradle.

"Your imperfect son," he mumbled. His words made me shiver. "Still alive, still…here. You would not guess where this face has taken me," he said with a humorless chuckle.

The image of him standing there within that small room haunted me for many years. The opera house had been both solace and torment, a place of escape from one life, yet filled with a different type of turmoil.

There were nights when he woke with a start and pushed away a memory, adamant about escape. In those last moments of terror, before the past faded and he realized his mistake, he would sometimes tell his father to stop. The way he jerked away in bed or sat up suddenly in the parlor made it clear he still attempted to free himself from whatever his father had done to him.

I had never heard him utter his mother's name before and I assumed she had died when he was an infant. Judging by his whispered, sullen words, I knew she had lived, but she hadn't allowed her son to be part of her life.

For a child to be denied such a simple gesture, a small token of affection like a kiss from his own mother, seemed beyond comprehension. I had no qualms of kissing Lissy goodnight because she was my daughter, not because she was a perfect child. Once Alex had been found safe and sound I hadn't thought twice about kissing him and smoothing back his hair.

These moments should have come easily between a mother and child. Erik's fear of rejection had started with the woman who had given birth to him, but who had never given him a life.

This horrible beginning, this unimaginable childhood, made me understand why he pushed everyone away. He knew nothing else—and he grew to expect no different.

_Just one kiss…and then never again…_

How many times had he asked that question? How many times had he been denied something so simple?

Tears flooded my eyes, the damage of his forty years spent wanting to be loved painfully clear. On the outside he feigned strength and stone-cold integrity, but behind the façade he was still deeply hurting and vulnerable.

He was not a man to show weakness no matter the circumstance, but in the past four days I had seen him as raw and drained as he could be, as far from grace as he could fall.

Yet still, despite all he had been denied, Erik loved his son with all of his heart. In the only way he knew how—guarded and precise on what he showed—he loved me as well.

I wondered what sort of man he would have become if his parents had given him their love and attention. I had every intention of finding the man he truly was inside. He was so much more than the world gave him credit for, much more than he ever realized.

He blew out the candles one by one and the smoke swirled around his form, separate tendrils refusing to join in the air. It looked as though their spirits had come back one last time to view him, both still too terrified to touch him.

It amazed and concerned me that he had kept his life so hidden, so buried. His parents fear and hatred still bothered him immensely, even if he wouldn't admit it. More than anything, it hurt me to think he simply didn't trust me enough to tell me of his past. I couldn't erase what had happened, but I could sincerely understand his pain.

"I forgive you both," he said quietly. He sobbed again and buried his face in his hands, his body shaking. "I forgive you for everything because I have known happiness. True happiness."

He started to turn and I practically flung myself against the apartment wall so he wouldn't see me. Breath held, I marched quickly toward the hall, but Erik's voice carried, haunted my every step. I nearly forgot to grab a candle as I hurried into the hall.

"I have known true happiness, and none will take that from me."

I treaded as lightly as I could, assuming if the acoustics made his voice louder then he could most likely also hear my heavy breathing and hard footfalls.

My heart ached for him, but I hoped his words would hold true. He deserved to know true happiness, and after four decades of being shunned, ridiculed, and hurt, I prayed he would finally realize how many people in his life loved him unconditionally.


	55. An Unlikely Tutor

"Are you educated?" I heard the Comte ask as I rejoined them.

They both glanced at me and Alex offered the slightest smile, which assured me he was doing just fine, perhaps even enjoying his conversation—or dissertation.

"Yes," Alex answered, sounding as though it was the worst fate imaginable. He had a way of exaggerating that made him fit for the stage. "Daily."

"Privately?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is the name of your teacher?"

"Monsieur Lowry."

"Charles Lowry?" The Comte's eyes widened, his voice filled with astonishment.

"Yes, sir. Madame Lowry is married to him. I call her Aunt Meg." The boy sounded positively bored.

"Charles Lowry is your tutor?" the Comte clarified.

"Yes, sir." Alex gave me a strange look as though he were tired of the same question. "I have said that, I think, twice now. Perhaps more."

The Comte looked as though he were beside himself. "How on earth did your father acquire Charles Lowry as your private tutor?"

Alex shrugged.

"I had no idea he was still teaching. The dean at Oxford would be livid to know he's teaching one child in Paris." He looked at me, his jaw slack. "Lowry," he mused. "_The_ Charles Lowry."

"A very bright child, Monsieur. Erik spares nothing for Alexandre," I answered proudly. "And Monsieur Lowry is a very fine fellow."

"Yes, indeed," the Comte said, still awestruck.

Monsieur Lowry was not the type of man to brag or assert himself, which made me wonder what he would have said to the Comte's words.

Charles was pleasant, incredibly humble, dashingly handsome, and quick witted. He retained facts and entertained with his knowledge no matter the subject and kept in touch with a most impressive array of scholars, scientists, and adventurers. On more than one occasion I had mentioned an author whom I enjoyed and Meg would nod readily and say her husband knew them as well.

How or why Charles had ever agreed to take up residence with a surly, quarrelsome, eccentric man like Erik I had no idea. Why I dreamed of taking up residence with him as well I wasn't sure either.

I knew he had taught before, but I was more familiar with him as a wonderful speaker who told fascinating stories from his trips to Africa as well as throughout Europe. Charles and Meg didn't visit regularly, as the wheelchair that kept him confined was cumbersome to lug down their stairs, but I enjoyed Monsieur Lowry's stories on the occasions he and his wife paid a visit.

Of course Meg adored him, despite his physical challenges. Even after years of marriage, she turned red any time she spoke of him as though he were the most important man in the world.

Apparently by the Comte's reaction, she may have been correct.

"He challenges Alex in his studies. I doubt another tutor could keep up with him," I said, nodding at Alex.

"I see," the Comte said, still shaking his head in disbelief. "Alexandre, what interests you most?"

"Egypt, sir. And the Algerians now." He was bubbling with excitement at the change in subject.

"Did you go the Exhibition? My daughters are very interested in spending a day there."

"Yes, I did. That's how I saw the Algerians."

"Who attended the Exhibition with you?"

Alex blinked. "No one."

My mouth dropped open. At any moment, I knew Erik would burst through the doorway, scolding his son and somehow twisting the situation to make it the Comte's fault for leading Alex into the question.

The Comte gawked as well. "Aren't you a bit young to be off on your own?"

"Yes, I wasn't supposed to be there." He shrugged. "I didn't tell anyone."

"Alex," I said under my breath.

"Have you been punished?" the Comte questioned.

Alexandre groaned and threw his head back. "Nooooo. Not yet. But I will be. Father never forgets anything. _Ever_. He is like an elephant."

"How does he punish you?"

"He tells me not to do it again." He proceeded to stand bolt upright, hold his arms out, and stomp around. "'Alexandre! What were you told? Have you ears, child?'"

His voice boomed, a perfect imitation of his father.

"Hush, Alex, that's rude," I said, attempting to hold back my laughter.

"Well, he does," Alexandre protested. "He never yells at you, does he? You feed him, Grand-mere says. He's too busy eating to yell at you."

I gave him a pointed look, prepared to slap my hand over his mouth if he continued. Knowing Alex, he would have no qualms of saying we met late at night and his father was probably too exhausted to yell or argue.

"Would you like to visit Africa someday?" the Comte asked, wisely changing the subject.

"With my father, perhaps," Alex answered. "Or maybe with my wife someday. Did you know some men have many wives? I believe that would be confusing."

"Very much so," the Comte answered, chuckling to himself.

Alex's expression sobered. "Monsieur de Chagny, I know your daughter died in Africa. I would like to see where she is buried some day," Alex said. He frowned and reached for the Comte's shirt cuff.

"She was buried in Northern France, though I appreciate the sentiment." He stared for a long moment at Alex's hand resting on his wrist, his expression weighed down by sadness. I wasn't sure if he missed his daughter or longed for a son. "When you are older I will be certain to give you the name of the cemetery."

I raised a brow, finding it a bit bold to assume they would stay in contact.

"Her name was Suzette," Alex said automatically.

I gave him a questioning look, wondering how he had learned of her, but the Comte seemed unaffected. "Yes, that is my daughter's name," he agreed. "She favored you greatly. Same face and eyes, I would say."

"She would be…my part-sister?"

"Half-sister," I corrected. The Comte looked at me, seemingly surprised by my words. "Or…I'm sorry, Monsieur?"

"You may call her your sister if you wish, Alexandre," he answered. "She was my oldest child. She wanted a brother and I have no doubt she would have adored you…as a brother or half-brother."

"Lissy is a sort of sister," he said. "She spit on my hand one time and we shook. She said it made me her brother."

I wrinkled my nose. "Alex, that is not polite."

The Comte chuckled. "You may call Lola and Isabella your sisters as well. Those are my two surviving daughters."

"Are they older or younger than me?"

"Younger. My only children." He frowned when he spoke.

"What's the difference between a sister and a half-sister?" Alex asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Alex," I warned, knowing precisely how his mind worked. "Don't ask so many questions."

"No, he's perfectly fine. I appreciate a question from an intelligent young man," the Comte said bravely. "What do you think the difference is?"

"She's only half-related to….me?"

"Not exactly." The Comte smiled. "A half-sibling would mean you shared only one parent."

"Oh. How does that happen?"

I cocked a brow and waited for his skillful answer. When he stammered, I shook my head, but made no attempt to help him. He had asked for this and he would answer on his own.

"Well….it's….when a mother and a father…." The Comte turned bright red. "Perhaps that's a question your father would rather answer."

Alex was not at all satisfied. He furrowed his brow. "When a mother and father do what?" he asked, looking at me.

I pursed my lips. "Indeed, Comte?" I questioned.

He lowered his eyes and shook his head. "Well, I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Monsieur. It was a pleasure speaking to you," the Comte said as he brushed his hands down his arms and picked at lint.

"Did you apologize to my father?" Alex asked quickly.

"I…oh….no. No, I didn't."

"You should."

"Alex," I corrected. "Thank Monsieur de Chagny for speaking with you."

"Thank you for speaking with me," Alex said quickly, reluctance heavy in his voice. "Will you apologize to my father for hurting him?"

"Alexandre!" I scolded. For better or worse he had his father's persistence. I appreciated his desire to defend his father no matter what, but it wasn't his place to make demands.

"Isn't that what a gentleman would do?" Alex asked.

"Yes, most certainly, Monsieur, I will offer my apology at once. You are a very bright young man, Alexandre. I'm sure you make your father very happy."

With that, he nodded and excused himself, saying he needed a word with Erik.

Alex leaned into me and closed his eyes. "I don't think the Comte can hear very well," he said.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"He had a dreadfully hard time hearing me say Uncle Charles is my tutor."

I grunted and smoothed his hair. "Uncle Charles sounds very important now, doesn't he?"

Alex sighed and nodded, too tired to respond. I held him to me and listened as the Comte approached Erik, who stood like an imposing sentinel with his hands on his hips.

"Alexandre is a wonderful young man. His education impresses me greatly," the Comte said.

"He will go on to school in a few years and be the head of his class," Erik asserted, his arrogance shining through. "His education is unparalleled."

"Yes, I believe he will." The Comte paused and took a long, deep breath. "My wife—Christine—if she was herself, would agree that Alexandre deserves the very best."

"Which I have provided," Erik snapped, wagging his finger in the Comte's face as though he would stab him.

The Comte took a step back and raised his hands in supplication. "Yes, I realize this, Monsieur. I'm not disagreeing with you. But I have two things to offer."

"No," Erik said, shaking his head. He grunted and waved him off. "No, I don't want anything from you."

I sighed from the doorway and glared at him.

The Comte didn't look back at me. He straightened his spine but kept his voice respectfully low, like an omega in the presence of an alpha wolf. "You can guess how much I would like to take Alexandre with me and raise him myself. His attributes display virtually nothing either of us can claim physically."

A murderous look entered Erik's eyes and he pushed up his sleeves as though prepared to fight over the Comte's words.

"I would like to say he has my nose, but at the same time he has your…smile," the Comte finished lamely.

Erik gave a cold chuckle. "My smile? Is that so? And when did you become an expert on my mirth?"

The Comte paused but managed to ignore his words. "When I saw you with him…the look on his face… We would be mad to pin either of our features to him. Physically he's his mother's son, however, intellectually-"

Erik raised his chin, his eyes wide with rage. His expression immediately made the Comte pause and draw back. I placed my hands on Alex's shoulders, preparing to leave his side and step between Erik and Raoul. I released a heavy sigh and glared at the two of them.

They noticed my change in posture immediately and curbed their aggravation with one another. Naturally the Comte was the first to back down. Erik turned away and I hoped he knew I tired of his combative ways.

"He shows much of your boundless intelligence, which I have no doubt is the result of his tutor as well as his rearing within your home," the Comte finished. "I, of course, don't know your level of education but regardless, he seems very much like you."

The Comte's words in no way calmed Erik, but he nodded at last. "What do you want from me?"

For a long moment the Comte studied Erik. I held my breath, hoping he would tell Erik what he had told me, that Alex was undeniably Erik's son.

"I want you to consider something." His words hung in the air. Erik started to shake his head, but the Comte spoke quickly. "You don't have to agree or disagree now, but please listen to me. I've thought about this all night." He waited a moment but Erik said nothing, which surprised me.

"I would like to make him an heir of sorts."

Erik opened his mouth, but the Comte's hand shot up. I gawked as well, surprised by his offer.

"Not as my son," he added quickly. "But as a….more of a nephew. My brother never had children but I believe I could pass Alexandre off as a de Chagny in time. My brother has been dead nearly ten years. By the time Alexandre is of age, he could be claimed as my brother's son without consequence. If, of course, you would have Alexandre inherit estates and responsibility, Monsieur."

"Your brother's son?" Erik questioned.

"My nephew," the Comte replied, avoiding the true answer.

Erik crossed his arms, his eyes hardened, filled with malice. "Your family name, your family estates and your family's responsibility to _my_ son, lacking _my_ name" Erik snapped. "What purpose would it serve?"

"For you?" the Comte shot back, clearly knowing Erik's nature.

Erik paused, evidentially taken aback by the Comte's reply. His jaw tensed, but he knew Raoul de Chagny was correct. This was for Alex's benefit, not a matter of gain between these two men.

"He has an inheritance," Erik shot back. "His last name will be respected, if that's your concern. Already it is known. You've heard of the composure E.M. Kire, haven't you?"

He nodded.

Erik gave an exaggerated bow.

The Comte ran his thumb along his chin. "Ah, yes, I knew that was you from the moment I heard one of your pieces."

"Wonderful," Erik sneered.

The Comte appeared undeterred by Erik's childish display. "Your first name spelled backwards? Clever. I don't, however, know the true origin of this name, Monsieur. Perhaps a little history? French? Scandinavian, perhaps? Or is it just the name of a ghost?"

I feared—for the hundredth time in an evening—they had stoked an old rivalry once more. Hands on my hips, I cleared my throat. "Gentleman," I announced. "Alex can barely keep his eyes open."

Erik looked at me briefly before he turned his attention to the Comte. "I have made a name for myself. Alexandre needs nothing from you or Christine," he growled. "He never has and he damned well never will."

Hearing his father say his name, Alex pulled away from me and wandered toward both men, but I caught him by the wrist.

"Wait," I said.

"Father?" Alex called.

The Comte studied Alex from the corner of his eye. "My apologies. A moment more, little Monsieur," he said before he turned back to Erik. "If you want to argue, by all means, argue. But if you can put aside the past for one damned moment….I want to do what is right for Alexandre. I know he cannot live with his mother. I know this and I hate it. But I will not attempt to take him. His place isn't with us."

Erik grunted. "And you question my child-rearing?"

"Did you think I would not?" he said under his breath, his irritation escalating with every word. "After everything that happened, did you think I would assume this child was cared for?"

Erik looked away and swallowed, having no reply.

"You have my word. I will make no attempt to bring him into my household," the Comte vowed. "I will offer my respect by recognizing Alexandre as your son. Your son with Christine." His voice trembled, his words forced. "And as Christine's son, as my wife's son, he should have access to funds that will be given to her children."

"I will be damned if he takes your name," Erik started to protest. I looked away from the two of them, wishing my own financial situation would have been in such a state where I could avoid asking for assistance when it came to my daughter. Erik would never accept anyone's help, financial or otherwise.

"Please, let me finish," the Comte insisted. "I want to do this. For Christine. If she knew him the way she should know him, she would want this. I know she would want to see her son provided for in every way. Please consider this."

He could have honestly done more harm than good to his family name by accepting Alexandre as a nephew. Selflessly he wanted what was right for Alex, which I doubted few men of his status would have done. After a decade spent hating Erik, he was offering him a part of his estate and finances.

I doubted Christine had the capacity to recognize such a gesture. The Comte's desire to include Alex was noble, not forced by his wife's prompting or a sense of duty as Alex was not the son of a penniless pauper. He did this out of kindness, accepting Alex despite the circumstances.

At last Erik relented. "I will take it into consideration."

"Madame Seuratti," Alex groaned. "Can we return home?"

"In a moment," I promised.

The Comte squared his shoulders. "Your son wants me to apologize to you. I gave him my word that I would do so," he said.

Erik grunted. "So I heard."

I sighed in disgust, wishing for once he would simply accept rather than argue. Alex pulled away from me and stepped toward them, his head tilted to the side as he watched them interact. I hoped for Alex's sake Erik would curb his temper. The last thing Alex needed was to his father explode in anger, especially after Alex himself had enjoyed a pleasant conversation with the Comte.

The Comte nodded and offered his hand. "I have known of you for a very long time, and much of what I thought of you was incorrect, Monsieur Kire. I would like to put those days behind us and recognize we are different people today, better people. Would you accept my apology?"

Erik studied him a moment, his hardened glare easing slightly as he considered the Comte's words. He glanced down at long-time enemy's hand, then met his eye and nodded, finally accepting. "For Alexandre's sake, yes, I would."

With a curt nod, the Comte released Erik's hand and took a step back. He gazed around the cluttered, candle-lit space and frowned, which made me wonder if demons haunted him in the same manner they still plagued Erik. Their lives had intertwined here, intersected briefly over a woman.

Erik immediately looked away from him and turned his attention to me. He blinked as though he noticed me for the first time since we'd arrived in the cellar.

I turned from him, overwhelmed by all I had witnessed and heard of the man I had faithfully followed into the depths of the earth.

I wondered who he would be once we reached the surface—Erik Kire the Composer, or the nameless Phantom of the Opera.


	56. Death By Ancient Civilization

Julia55

My hand began to throb, and as I looked around the apartment, I had no idea what to think. I was glad Alex had been found, yet appalled to see where he had ended up. No one should have ended up here.

"Julia," Erik said suddenly. "We should leave."

His voice startled me. I looked away from the stacks of decaying compositions, many of them unfinished, and met his eye. When I looked at him, I frowned, my heart sick over his melancholy expression. He looked bewildered on my behalf, ashamed of all I had seen.

"This way, Madame," the Comte prompted as he ushered me and Alex from the darkest, dankest place I had ever seen.

I looked back at Erik, who nodded silently as I followed the Comte out of the apartment and into the hall.

"Did you hear the music?" Alex asked me suddenly.

I lifted a brow at him. "I beg your pardon?" I asked, having no idea what was on his mind.

"Father's music. It's _everywhere_," he said as though this made perfect sense. "I could hear the melodies the moment I looked at the pages."

The Comte and I exchanged looks.

"Could you?" the Comte asked, his voice filled with fascination.

Alex nodded readily. "You didn't look, did you? If you had, you would hear the melodies right this moment."

"I'm afraid I didn't look," the Comte answered. "My apologies."

Unsatisfied with the Comte's answer, Alex looked to me and frowned. He sighed, already knowing my answer, and shook his head.

"I hope father remembers all of them," he said sadly.

There were many memories lingering within the lakeside apartments, most of which I doubted Erik cared to recall.

"Do you enjoy music, Madame Seuratti?" Alex asked.

"Yes," I said. "Of course I do, Alex, that's how I met your father. I heard him playing, then one night I met him when he was out for a walk."

A combination of being exhausted and interest in the story left him looking almost dazed. He blinked at me and smiled warmly.

"You are very fortunate," Alex said. "Grand-mere says very few people ever see him."

"I know, Alex," I replied. Even fewer truly knew him.

"I think if more people knew him, they would like him." Alex sighed. "Don't you?"

Plagued by his own insecurities, paralyzed by his faults, Erik wasn't an easy man to like—at least not on the outside. Had I not caught him by surprise that fateful night, I wondered what would have become of him…or myself.

Alex would have watched his father die in an alley. I wasn't sure Madame Giry or Madame Lowry would have been able to convince him to fight to live. He would have demanded they leave him there, defeated and alone.

"They love his music," the Comte said suddenly. "That is how they know him."

Alex considered the Comte's words. "Do you like my father because of his music?"

The Comte grunted. "He is a fine musician," he agreed. "And it seems you have proven him a decent man on many accounts."

Decent, yet still missing. I excused myself from the hall and returned back to the apartments where Erik hadn't yet moved. His expression was vacant, his eyes distant.

"She has seen too much," he whispered forlornly. "Too much of me."

I paused, wondering how he could possibly think I had ever seen too much of him when he'd given me virtually nothing to see.

"Erik? What are you doing? I thought you were ready to leave," I said as I stood at a distance.

He startled at my words and seemed surprised to see me return for him. "What is it?"

I knew he had once stood here alone while Raoul and Christine left arm in arm. He looked abandoned, returned to the same fate he'd experienced ten years ago as Alex, the Comte, and I walked from the lakeside and into the hall.

"I think I owe you an apology," he replied, his voice strangely distant and hollow.

As much as I wanted to hear him say the words, I simply wanted him out of this terrible place. He wasn't himself here and I needed the man I had grown to love.

In this dungeon he turned from me where as in my parlor I often turned and found him quietly studying me, a soft smile on his lips, unspoken affection in his gaze. I would lose him here, to the shadows and suffering I wanted him to leave behind for good.

I started toward him and took him by the arm, but he didn't budge.

"A night of rest will suffice for now. Please, I'm exhausted and my hand hurts," I prompted.

"I'm sorry you saw this," he blurted out. "This…this place, this part of me."

I nodded, shivering at his sincerity. "Wait until tomorrow," I said gently. He turned away from me and I reached for him. "You have time tomorrow. Please, let's leave this place."

He didn't agree verbally, but he reluctantly nodded and followed me toward the doorway. Several feet away, he paused and turned, grabbing his mask from the table where he'd left it.

"We should probably gather a few candles," I said as he stood staring at the mask cradled in his hand. His hand trembled noticeably, his body bent. I wasn't sure if it was pain on the outside or inside that affected him. "We won't make it up without a few to guide the way."

"Yes," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

He refused to meet my eye as he gathered up the candles and trudged toward me. I was beginning to think he didn't want to leave, which worried me. He didn't belong there, concealed in darkness.

"Alex is safe, we're all together…what's wrong?" I asked as I stopped him at the door.

"I don't know why I allowed you to come here," he said remorsefully.

I raised a brow. "_Allowed_? Hardly," I teased.

He looked curiously at me, unable to gauge my tone. I knew he sought redemption, a way to prove he was not the same man he'd been a decade earlier.

All people deserved forgiveness, he'd said. He'd forgiven his parents for their acts of cruelty. Alex loved him without question and never needed his father to apologize, which he needed to know. Perhaps even the Comte's truce affected him.

But now he shied away from me, recoiled when he expected I would do the same. More than anything, he could no longer tolerate being pushed aside. He would always push first.

"Erik, I would have followed you here regardless of your permission," I said. "I care for you and Alex far too much to stand idly in the distance."

He nodded. "Thank you," he said, his voice unrecognizable, as though he spoke words he didn't believe.

It worried me when he turned away as though he hadn't heard my words. He was too consumed by his past to think of how far he had come.

He was too accustomed to fighting and losing. I wished he could see what he had fought to keep—and who had fought with him, not against him.

"Erik?" I questioned.

When he glanced at me, he appeared as troubled as the night we had met. He looked away and stared at the dark lake with its smooth, glassy surface.

"This was all I had," he said under his breath.

Throughout the night I had stood beside him and attempted to reason through this muddled hell. I worried all of my efforts were in vain and he would succumb to the demons that plagued him here.

"You have more now," I replied.

He bowed his head and stood very still for a long moment. I thought for sure he would protest, but Alex laughed suddenly and the sound echoed through the room. Erik jerked his head up, his features softening at the sudden reminder.

"You should get him home and into bed," I suggested.

"There are many things I must do, Madame," he replied.

His formal acknowledgement made my heart stutter. I wanted to hear him speak my given name in his hot-blooded French manner.

When I followed Erik out into the hall, I found Alex wide awake and unfortunately very animated in the midst of storytelling.

"They take a hot poker, and they stick it up the dead person's nose and they scramble the brain—just like an egg! Do you know why they did it?" Alex asked as he tugged on the Comte's coat. "Because they didn't think the brain was important, it was the heart."

"I never knew that," the Comte replied with undo patience.

"They thought the heart was responsible for everything and the brain was useless. So they pulled it out through the dead person's nose before they embalmed them."

The Comte's eyebrows shot into his hairline. He was incredibly polite toward such a talkative boy. "Fascinating. A little grotesque, but still fascinating."

"Would you want to be embalmed?" Alex asked hopefully.

"I don't believe so."

I chuckled and shook my head, amused by the conversation. Only Alex would have the gall to ask a person he barely knew if he could scramble his brain and pull it out through his nose.

"Madame, would you allow me to embalm you?" Alex asked as he turned his attention toward me.

I pursed my lips. "A week ago you were going to be an explorer. How on earth will you have time to embalm people?"

"Oh, there are many things I want to do when I'm older," he mused. "I will do all of them." He immediately turned back to the Comte and began asking him if he would want his own pyramid built in his honor since he would need to draw up the plans immediately.

At last Erik stepped in. "Alex, I believe Monsieur…Raoul…has heard enough about the intriguing Egyptian civilization," he said over his shoulder as he guided us toward the surface. "What more do you want from him? You already have his body for science."

The Comte shook his head and attempted to meet Erik's gaze. I wasn't sure if it was the lack of his mask or the presence of bruises and stitches that made him lower his eyes. "He's done no harm. His retention of facts and information is mind-boggling."

"As you wish," Erik mumbled. "You've chosen your death by ancient civilization."

"You are a fortunate man," the Comte said once we reached the theater's main floor. Rain seeped through the roof and onto the stage in unseen splatters. "And Alexandre is clearly a very fortunate boy to receive the education and encouragement he clearly enjoys."

Erik immediately froze and looked over his shoulder, staring him down. They stood no more than ten paces from one another on the stage, which seemed an appropriate place for one last encounter.

He turned to face the Comte and lifted his chin. "Thank you," he replied at last. "That's very…kind."

"It's well deserved," the Comte replied. He shifted his weight. "And I have heard you employ Charles Lowry as his tutor. Monsieur, I must know how you obtained him."

Erik offered a wry smile. "By marriage," he said.

Alex started up again with his tally of who would allow him the pleasure of scrambling their brains for embalming. I quickened my pace and caught Erik by the arm.

He looked down at me, startled at first, but offered a smile.

"Do you think what Alex said is true?" I asked.

Erik narrowed his eyes. "About the brain being pulled out through the nose? Of course it's true. I read it myself."

I exhaled and wrinkled my nose. He truly fluctuated between hopelessly romantic in one heartbeat and downright, miserably practical in the next.

"Indeed, precisely my thought," I said dryly.

His lips parted. "Then I have no idea what you're asking me," he said gruffly, attempting to mask his embarrassment.

"About the heart being more important than the brain?"

He met my eye and his features softened. With one glance back at Alex, who was still deep in conversation, he at last smiled. For the first time in hours, he looked familiar to me again, like the man who often sat beside me in the parlor and, without a word, reached for my hand and caressed my fingers in the most delicate fashion.

"Yes," he said as he touched my cheek and searched my eyes. Finally he looked ready to move forward rather than disappear into the past. "Yes, I think it is."


	57. The Carriage Ride

The night was miserably dark, cold and raining when we exited the theater and stood on the vacant street. Erik blew out his candle and exited first. He held up the wooden board sealing off the opera house while I followed closely behind. Alex dallied, dragging his feet until he finally stepped out while the Comte emerged last.

"I'll return shortly," the Comte said as he trotted into the shadows.

We stood briefly huddled together as a group of men across the street lurked in the alleyway. I could see the bright orange glow of their cigars dangling from their lips. Undoubtedly they had seen as well as heard us leave the old opera house and I prayed for a night void of any more trouble.

Since the opera house disaster, this part of the city had rapidly declined. I worried the gendarmes would be called to investigate or that these men lurking like rats in the alley would approach and demand money.

"Do we have to walk home?" Alexandre asked his father.

Erik leaned against the building briefly, his body doubled over. Even with the meager light, I could see him grimace. "I'm not sure yet. It isn't terribly far. Only seven or eight streets."

"Seven or eight streets?" Alexandre moaned.

"Hardly my doing now, is it? If you didn't want to walk home you should have considered that before you left," Erik snapped. "Honestly!"

His tone echoed through the night, boomed like thunder through the city. The men across the street continued on their way, leaving behind their discarded cigars in the puddles.

"He meant no harm," I said quietly, tired of arguments. After all Alex had witnessed, he needed reassurance instead of harsh words.

Erik scowled, but said nothing further. I saw him search the darkness across the damp street and shook my head, knowing he had noticed we were not alone. Perhaps for Alex's sake and mine he had decided not to mention their presence.

Alex stepped toward me and silently pouted at his father's scolding. With tenderness, I held him to me and wrapped my arms around him, shielding him from the night.

Behind us, posters flapped in the cold night breeze, advertisements for other plays and operas taking place throughout the city. Now that we stood on the outside, I wondered what had drawn him into the theater.

"Alex, why would you go down there in the first place?" I asked, unsure of how much he knew of the opera disaster—or his father's contribution. "It's quite far and in horrible disrepair."

Dark eyes looked up at me and he bit his lower lip. He shrugged before dramatically placing his head against my chest.

Erik sighed and rolled his eyes. "Should we hold our applause, Alexandre?" he questioned.

I tisked Erik for his tone even though I knew Alex was searching for my sympathy. The following morning he could suffer through whatever punishment Erik found suitable, but for the night he needed coddle and reassured.

Even more than that, he needed a mother to watch over him.

"Oh come now, a shrug is hardly an answer, young man. You had me worried sick," I said gently.

Alex looked to his father briefly as though searching for permission to speak. "She wouldn't come for me there," he confessed weakly. "I knew she wouldn't come for me if I hid down there and I never wanted to see her again. She was very cross with me."

Erik exhaled, his shoulders dropping. I glanced at him briefly and saw the regret in his eyes for speaking so harshly to Alex.

"You should have gone to your father," I admonished as I smoothed his hair and stroked his sweet face.

"But she would have called the gendarmes and they would have taken Father away." He blurted out. He paused suddenly, his lips parted, his words choked by emotion. "They would have…" He hiccupped, his features pinched. "They would have taken him to prison, they would have hurt him because of me."

I cupped his face in my hands and searched his rueful eyes. "This is not your doing," I tried to explain to him.

He shook his head. "I didn't want her to find me, for Father's sake, Madame."

"Alex, as considerate as it may seem to you now, I don't believe that is an acceptable reason for running away from home. Do you?" I asked.

I worried for him and what madness Christine spoke in private. Alex was imaginative and bright, but not the type of child to wander off.

With Erik's focus on Christine for the past year, Alex had drifted. He spent many hours with Lissy, his mood increasingly sullen as the date approached when Christine would sing at the World's Fair. He had no idea why he was suddenly cast aside by his father. None of us understood Erik's actions.

My frustration grew as Alex trudged through the kitchen and mumbled his father had once again locked his bedroom door. He wanted his father's attention so badly, yet there was no room within Erik's obsession for anyone or anything but Christine.

For twelve months, while Christine consumed his father's thoughts, Alex spent his days studying with Monsieur Lowry, his afternoons playing with Lisette, and his evenings hoping his father would unlock the door and speak with him.

Father and son longed for someone in their life. I wondered how greatly Erik would regret losing an entire year with his son.

Alex didn't deserve to feel as though he had done anything wrong.

Alexandre shook his head at last. "I should have come to you," he said quietly. He looked up at me and half-smiled.

I kissed his forehead. "You could have been lost for days," I pointed out as I hugged him tightly. "How on earth did you get there?"

"The tunnel," Alex answered as though this should have been perfectly obvious. "Father's tunnel."

My mouth dropped open. "Your father's tunnel?" I questioned.

"There was a boat tied up on the shoreline," Alex replied with a nod.

"Moored," Erik corrected under his breath.

Quite frankly I didn't care about whether a boat was tied, moored, or floating away. I still wasn't sure what to make of apparent tunnel leading into the opera house, which to Alex seemed an appropriate path.

Alex evidently didn't hear his father's words as he never skipped a beat. He also didn't seem to find the idea of a tunnel—one belonging to his father no less—as unusual.

"I rowed all the way to the other side. The currant was very strong, so I traveled like a great captain of the sea, swift as I could."

I looked from Alex to Erik, my eyes narrowed in question. Erik briefly glanced at me, then focused his gaze on Alex to avoid confrontation.

For a long moment I continued to study him. In five years he had never mentioned a tunnel, though I wasn't exactly sure how the topic would have ever entered conversation.

Perhaps instead of a romantic evening stroll through Paris, we could have taken a tunnel beneath the city. I wondered how Erik felt with yet another secret revealed—and if he realized the list of questions I now gathered.

Exhausted beyond belief, I hoped I would wake in the morning and found this conversation to be out of a dream. This night threatened to completely unravel me.

"You shouldn't have gone down there, Alex. You could have been hurt. You realize that, don't you?" I asked.

"Yes…but…." He lifted his head, his eyes suddenly wide and filled with excitement. "If we lived in Venice we could take a gondola home. Did you see the boat on the lake?"

I wasn't sure if I was more surprised by a secret tunnel or the way in which Alex's mind worked, especially given the late hour. There was no feasible way of keeping up with his pace.

"No, I did not." I paused and risked a glance in Erik's direction. As soon as he saw me look at him, he lowered his gaze, clearly ashamed of what Alex had revealed. "Nor did I ever hear of a tunnel," I added.

"The bottom is starting to rot," Alex explained, ignoring me as he looked to Erik, excitement in his voice. "Father, do you think we could make a new boat?"

Before Erik could answer, the Comte trotted up. "My driver returned to the hotel but I've arranged for a cab to take the three of you home," he said, breathing hard.

"You are too kind, Comte de Chagny, but how did you hire a cab at this hour?" I asked.

"There was a carriage at a house down the street just finishing a ride. He'll be here in a moment or two. I've already paid." He removed his overcoat and immediately draped it over Alex, who appeared dwarfed in the garment. "Here, little Monsieur, you'll catch a fever in this weather."

"That was unnecessary of you to pay for a cab," Erik said as he tore off his cloak and fit it over my shoulders as though he refused to be outdone. "I am perfectly capable of paying for a carriage to deliver them safely home."

I glared at him and his need to argue over the most petty details and ideas. At three in the morning—in the rain no less—he wanted to fight over a carriage.

"Then don't take the carriage. Allow your son and Madame Seuratti to ride home sheltered from the rain and if you prefer, walk," the Comte replied with a slight edge of irritation to his voice. He waved off Erik's disgruntled words.

The Comte's reply echoed my thoughts.

"Madame Seuratti," Erik muttered. "Madame Seuratti indeed."

Alex yawned, but tugged on my sleeve and wanted to know if Lissy could assist him in gathering every twig along the street to make a raft, which he planned to float down the river.

The Comte turned away from Erik and nodded at Alex, listening intently to his story.

"I know a fellow who builds ships," the Comte said. "He's a navy man. My brother was good friends with him."

"You have a brother?" Alex asked in astonishment. "I wanted a brother." He frowned deeply. "Perhaps I will find a half-brother like I have half-sisters."

The Comte and I exchanged looks and I felt myself blush.

"I'll have compensation sent to your hotel later in the morning," Erik said suddenly, his voice far louder than necessary as though he wanted to be acknowledged.

The Comte shrugged. "It's in no way a requirement, but if you feel it is necessary, I will not argue. He turned away from Erik and offered Alex a handshake.

Erik's eyes widened, his face contorted in a scowl.

With an ear-to-ear grin, Alex heartily accepted. He looked proud to be treated like a gentleman rather than a child. "It has been a sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur," the Comte said.

"Thank you," Alexandre replied.

I nudged him with my elbow. "Alex, what do you say?"

"It has been….a…." He looked up at me and I bent, offering him a quick, polite suggestion. "Sincere pleasure to acquaint with you."

A carriage rounded the corner and the Comte waved his arms over his head until the driver pulled up to the curb. Erik turned away and I pulled his cloak from my shoulders and handed it back, watching from the corner of my eye as he quickly tossed the hood over his head and low over his eyes.

He disappeared from my sight, a man turned into a shadow in the presence of a stranger.

"Now we don't have to walk," Alex said jovially. He hopped in, took his seat, and reached for my uninjured hand. "May I help you, Madame?" he asked.

I sat across from him and Erik sat beside me, sighing as he spread his legs. I couldn't imagine how much pain he was in considering he'd barely stood for four days.

"Thank you," Alex said as he turned around and handed the Comte his overcoat.

"Of course, my boy." He stared at Alex for a long moment, a wan smile on his lips. "Best of luck with your future studies and travels. I have no doubt you will be one of the most integral members on an Egyptian expedition. You'll make your father very proud—if he could be more pleased with you."

He stood with his hand on the cab door and reluctantly faced Erik one final time. "Good night to you, Monsieur Kire."

"Are you walking?" Alexandre asked suddenly, his head popping back out into the rain. I could only see half of his face, but his expression was filled with horror.

Rain had plastered the Comte's hair to his head and sent rivulets down his chin and cheeks. His lips quivered when he spoke, teeth chattering. "It's only a few streets. No need for concern, little Monsieur."

"Comte," I said, startled by his offer. The carriage held more than enough room for the four of us to comfortably ride together and I worried for his safety if he took to the streets by foot. "Surely…"

He shook his head. "I'm fine, Madame Seuratti."

I frowned and shook my head, wondering if he preferred braving Paris at night to another moment in Erik's company.

"Perhaps you and Alexandre may continue the history of Africa on the ride home," Erik said suddenly. Both Alex and I turned to stare at him. His offer stunned me, and I slid my hand over his and gently squeezed his fingers. He offered the slightest of smiles at my gesture. "And perhaps you could explain in greater detail the plans you have drawn up for my son's future."

The Comte smiled back, his grin widening as he looked to Alex, who nodded readily at the chance to engage in conversation with his newfound friend. "Why, well, y-yes, of course."

Erik sat back while Alex hopped across to sit on the bench beside his father.

"I trust you will have something finalized before supper time tomorrow?" Erik questioned smoothly.

"I—I could." The Comte nodded readily. His excitement rivaled Alex's.

Lips parted, I sat beside Erik and stared back and forth between the two men. When Erik looked at me, he smirked, then turned back to the Comte.

"I expect every detail thoroughly noted," he said.

"Is that your decision?" the Comte asked hopefully.

Erik narrowed his eyes. "I haven't made a decision. I merely want to see what you have intended for my son," he said harshly.

Naturally, he had no intention of deciding just yet, but I hoped he would remain open for Alex's sake, especially since he had two younger sisters whom he'd never officially met. In time, as was his curious nature, he would want to meet them.

"We will discuss this at Julia's house tomorrow night. Nine sharp, is that understood?" Erik instructed.

He paused, then turned and looked to me. With a brow raised, I consented, offering a nod of agreement.

Alex fell asleep within minutes of the carriage ride. He rested his head against the cushioned interior and the Comte watched him briefly.

I doubted he had ever expected to find his wife's son happy, healthy, and educated. Judging from the lakeside apartments beneath the opera house, if I had been Raoul de Chagny, I would have held the same reservations. No good could have come from such a dark and lonely place, and yet somehow Erik had endured to raise his son properly.

Eventually the cab ride threatened to lull me to sleep. I succumbed and closed my eyes, resting as I waited to finally return home.

"You've been….fortunate," the Comte said suddenly, keeping his voice low. I didn't dare open my eyes, fearing I would disrupt the conversation. "As strange as this sounds, it is almost a relief to find you alive and with a family. I don't know why, but it has been a regret of mine to hate you for so long."

Erik said nothing in return for a long time, which disappointed me. Raoul de Chagny had continuously made attempts to apologize verbally as well as with his actions. I admired him for his intentions and forgiveness. He was a decent man, one who had found himself in the middle of unusual circumstances.

"I will only say this once, so I suggest you listen closely and dare not ask any questions," Erik said, his tone low and harsh. "I am not going to thank you. You've been a burden on my mind for far too long. But I will say this…if you had not attempted to kill me, I wouldn't have Alexandre and Julia here with me. Take that as you will."

Only Erik would think to pardon a man for an old rivalry in such fashion.

"Tomorrow at nine sharp," the Comte said as the carriage door opened and the driver offered to help him out. "Madame Seuratti's home."

"Julia," I said, my voice heavy with sleep. I rubbed my eyes and smiled back at him. "You may call me Julia."

"I insist you call me Raoul as well," he replied.

Erik made a sound of disgust, an animalistic growl of disapproval.

"Good night, then," the Comte said as he turned his attention briefly to Erik. "Monsieur Kire, Madame Julia," Raoul paused and looked to me with a wan smile. "Let me know what the expense is for your hand. I will bring my checkbook. If there was more—"

"It's a shallow wound," I said. I looked at Erik, who stared at my injured hand and frowned. "It will heal."

I sincerely hoped in time, we would all heal.

The Comte nodded and shut the cab door. Within seconds, the driver signaled the horses and we headed toward home at last.


	58. A Painful Past

Julia58

With Raoul safely at his hotel and the carriage slowly making its way toward home, I stared out the window at the vacant city streets.

The night seemed surreal now that we had found Alex. Ten years ago, when the news of the opera house fire took up every inch of the newspaper, I had never thought much of the disaster or the people involved.

Louis found little entertainment in attending the theater and had never taken me to see a performance, so I had never seen the opera house for myself when the building was known for its beautiful marble floors, golden statues, and magnificent chandelier.

Five years ago when I had first met Erik, I never dreamed my admiration for him would lead to meeting and fighting off the mother of his only child and searching the bowels of an abandoned theater.

Now that the evening was at an end, I felt anxious and afraid. I wanted the security of my own home with my daughter safe in her bed. My heart began to suddenly race, my hands trembling. I sat shaking, reality bearing down on me now that I had a moment to breathe.

Thoughts wormed through my hazy mind, visions of Christine waiting outside my front door or within my home, threatening my daughter. After what I had witnessed, the Comtess paying a visit seemed feasible—and frightening.

The carriage wheels hit a bump in the cobblestone and I flinched, sitting bolt upright in the cab. It took a long moment for me to steady my breath.

I had lived in fear before…I refused to live in such a manner again.

"What time is it?" I questioned, afraid the silence would drive me mad.

Erik blinked several times. He inhaled sharply and turned toward me. "My watch stopped. Near three, I would guess."

I put my hand over my mouth and yawned. "It's been a long night."

"Yes, it has," he agreed. He searched my face, his green eyes filled with regret. "I should not have allowed you to come—but I'm glad you were here. If I didn't have you—"

"Erik, you cannot come to my home as you once did," I blurted out.

My words hung in the air. Unbearable sadness filled his gaze as he stared back at me. I held my breath and considered telling him I was mistaken, that I needed him with me.

Continuing our arrangement would have been simple. He would please me as often as I desired and our lives would be kept separate. There would be no involvement on my part into his life and secrets, which would simplify our relationship.

He would never need to suffer through meeting my family or closest friends. He would be mine alone, whenever I desired his company.

But that wasn't what I wanted, as I knew our arrangement was lonely and limited. I found our time together satisfying, yet not fulfilling.

"It's for the best," I said firmly. "For both of us, Erik, not just for me. We both need time."

I paused, waiting for him to argue or at least question me. I wanted him to sort out his feelings and mourn his loss, as I knew his adoration for Christine had been cultivated over many years and one night would not be enough to snuff out her memory.

Time, however, had been an enemy of sorts for him. All of his life he'd spent waiting to be recognized, to be accepted. He'd waited ten years for Christine to return.

I would no longer be her replacement, a mistress to fill a physical void while he waited for her.

"When I first saw you that night, I never imagined our lives would remain so separate," I said, attempting to find the right words. "I thought eventually we would spend more time together, though I suppose I blame myself for our…routine."

I pursed my lips, but still he said nothing in return. When I looked at him, I wasn't sure what went through his mind.

"You do realize we've come no closer to one another in five years, don't you?" I pointed out, hoping he would understand what I wanted—and that he would want the same thing.

He nodded automatically but made no reply. His eyes turned vacant, his expression distant. His silence unnerved me, but I feared if I didn't speak now, he would never listen.

"I want something more than an occasional bedmate," I tried to explain. "I want something….something real. I want you to be there for me when I need you as a friend, not just a lover in the middle of the night. I want to see you outside of when I light a candle and request your company. That is what I want, that's what I've always wanted. Haven't you?" I asked desperately, running out of words while he remained silent. "Please, Erik, tell me what you want. Don't you want more?"

Erik drew back from me. "I want you," he said under his breath, his voice hollow, his request simple.

But wanting me was no longer enough. Desire alone would not sate either of us.

He attempted to suppress a shiver, but I knew by his expression and soft tone that in his mind, he had already twisted my words.

"I wish I had known what I wanted from the start, but I was…blinded by my ignorance," he admitted.

I nodded, acknowledging his words. He was not alone.

He took a step back, fear invading his gaze. "I would have died for her," he said blankly. "But tonight, when we left the opera house, I realize I want to live to be with you. That's all I want."

Tears threatened. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him how deeply I loved him despite what I had witnessed throughout the night, but he needed to find peace with himself.

"Knowledge comes too late," he continued remorsefully. He rubbed his hand over his lips and exhaled. "May I at least walk you to your door? Or do you wish to be rid of me immediately?" he questioned bitterly as he turned his face away.

I shook my head at him. "Oh, Erik, quit being so pessimistic. You always assume the worst without even hearing what I say to you."

Like a child, he bowed his head and clasped his hands in his lap. He appeared devastated.

"Now, I didn't say I never wanted to speak to you again, but I want…something different." I paused. "I want more from you."

He visibly tensed, his breathing turning harder. Determination flitted through his eyes as he trained his gaze on the empty seat across from us.

"I would like you to come for supper some night," I said. "Not as you have planned for this evening with the Comte, but sometime in the future."

"To supper?" he questioned, sounding almost disgusted with the thought.

"Yes, to supper." I sat back and looked him over. "Supper and nothing more, so don't even ask me to take you upstairs."

"Why would I come over-" He wisely paused before finishing his sentence. I narrowed my eyes and watched as he swallowed hard and relaxed. "Why would you invite me for supper?"

Conversation had clearly never entered his thoughts. I braced myself, unsure of how he would react to a simple request. "I want you to sit down and tell me about your past," I said quickly.

His expression darkened and he turned away from me, his fingers nervously tapping on his trouser leg. "I—I—no, Julia, I can't do that."

"Yes, you can," I argued.

For far too long he had contained his deepest fears and his abusive childhood. Ignoring his past had not benefited him, but I hoped perhaps in time if he allowed me in, he would loosen his grip on the past and be able to live without such demons haunting him.

Despite what he had suffered, somewhere in his past there was joy. He kept this hidden as well, buried deep inside of himself. On rare occasions, in the midst of conversation, he would sometimes utter _my uncle. _Erik was fond of this man, but whenever he spoke of his uncle, his brief enthusiasm always seemed riddled with guilt and remorse. Whatever had drifted into his thoughts seemed brushed away all too swiftly.

He shook his head. "No…no, I cannot, I will not ever utter…" He paused, swallowing hard. "I will not give those days a voice."

His words sent a chill through me, but I steeled my nerves and persisted. "Whatever has happened can't possibly be more disturbing than what I've seen tonight," I reasoned, hoping I was correct.

As I expected, he remained silent and stubborn.

I sighed and attempted to lighten my tone. "Goodness, Erik, five years together and you've kept much hidden, including a secret tunnel leading into the opera house. Do you know what I've hidden from you? Perhaps a single recipe for pecan pie."

"It's not the same," he argued miserably. "You know this, Julia."

"After Christine…trust me, Erik. You can tell me anything."

His eyes widened, his lips parted in shock. He didn't seem to understand my words were meant in jest, as he was too caught up in defending himself to see I was interested in him as a person, as a man I wanted to love with all of my heart, if only he would allow me.

"No," he said sharply, his mouth hardening with determination. "I cannot tell you anything."

I settled on a compromise, as he was too agitated. "I think I've earned the right to know you more than I do now."

"I have spared you my life," he growled through his teeth. "Trust when I say I have lessened your burden, Madame Seuratti."

I frowned at him and his dramatic words. "You make this seem as though I wish to torture you."

He looked up at me with such pain in his gaze that I knew I had misspoken. I considered the marks on his back, the words he would utter in his sleep…I looked away from him and felt my throat tighten.

"I would never intentionally hurt you," I assured him. "You know many of the most painful details of my marriage. Moments I'm ashamed anyone witnessed or heard…nights I wish never existed. Do you love me less because of this knowledge?"

He shook his head. "Why would I love you less for…?"

He lowered his eyes and nodded, conceding to my request, at least for the moment. Even if he didn't wish to speak aloud, he knew what I said was true.

"Are you the same man you were ten years ago?" I questioned.

He shook his head. "I'm not the same man I was five days ago," he admitted. He risked a glance in my direction and offered a faint smile.

His answer pleased me, as I hoped he would see a change within himself.

"How long do you wish to continue this…arrangement?" he asked at last.

I sighed in disgust and leaned over to see if Alex was still asleep. With his mouth wide open, he appeared sufficiently out for a while longer.

"Arrangement? You mean proper behavior?"

He snorted. "Proper arrangement," he replied dryly.

"Long enough for you to come to see me and not my bedroom, you wicked fool," I teased quietly.

"You should be flattered," he said under his breath with a maddening smile. "And you know I only come for your crumpets anyway."

Despite my desires to remain firm, he melted me with his sardonic tone. I adored his sense of humor, even when it didn't seem intentional. "You will never learn how to be civilized, will you?" I sighed and played with my hair to keep from reaching for his hand.

"What fun is it to act civilized in your company?"

"Indeed." I rolled my eyes and chuckled to myself. "But honestly, Erik, after tonight, after this past week, I need a holiday from you."

His expression immediately turned to alarm and he visibly tensed. "You won't see me?" he asked.


	59. Love Beyond Words

A/N This night took 7 years to finally come to an end. Longest. Night. Ever! Luckily, I have an awesome beta reader who not only makes fantastic suggestions, but also makes sure Julia gets her voice and keeps her words strong and significant to her side of the story. Also, this is the first time in 7 years I've been able to leave you with a little cliff hanger, as this officially ends AHTW. I'm very excited for a "new" chapter. Please let me know how you like this chapter!

Julia59

There was such panic in his voice when he spoke that I considered retracting my words. I wanted him to look forward to our time spent together, not fear the moments when we were apart. I would not become his obsession, his replacement for Christine.

"Of course you will see me," I replied, becoming exasperated with him and his ability to jump to such severe conclusions.

I didn't know how else I could possibly show him how deeply I cared. Not only had I nursed him back to health, but I had remained at his side while he confronted Christine and her husband.

"Erik, you make it sound worse than it is," I admonished.

"For how long?" Had his voice not trembled, it would have been a demanding question. "How long before you allow me to see you?"

"I don't know yet," I replied as I turned to gaze out the window. Now that we were almost home, I wasn't certain what would happen.

My cousin Anthony had warned me of my brother Max threatening to pay a visit. His desire to nose through my finances as well as my personal life had me concerned, as he would disapprove of both.

All of my years married to Louis and he had never bothered to write, much less visit. If he saw how my funds had dwindled or knew of my relationship with Erik, he would to tie a rope around me and drag me off to another marriage or perhaps back home with him.

I needed a few days to focus on my own life and my daughter as I feared one misstep on my part and Max wouldn't allow me a choice.

I could see Erik's worried reflection in the glass as we passed a street lamp. Bewilderment flitted through his gaze and he placed his hand over the right side of his face. His actions were automatic, trained into him.

"I have duties pertaining to my daughter," I said at last. "You understand how important she is to me. These last few days she has spent more time with Meg than her own mother. Please, understand I need time with her and I'm certain Alex would appreciate having you near him as well, especially considering tonight."

I turned toward Erik again and looked him over. Grabbing him by the wrist, I pulled his hand down from his face and shook my head. He refused to meet my eye.

"We will see each other tomorrow," I reminded him, though I knew a meeting to discuss finances and inheritance was hardly what he wanted—or what I needed. "We can discuss this before Raoul arrives or after he leaves," I offered.

The carriage came to a halt and Erik paused. He studied me closely, his gaze searching my face before he pulled up his hood and finally stepped out of the carriage. With his eyes still averted, he helped me down.

I took his arm and leaned into him, unsettled by the night and a decision I wanted to make for our benefit. No matter how I attempted to explain myself, he would see this as punishment. Despite how close I stood to him, I suspected he already thought I had rejected him.

We reached the porch and he slowly released me. From the corner of my eye I saw the curtains rustle and Meg peek out. Once she saw us, she quickly skittered from sight.

"Good night," Erik said softly, his voice filled with disappointment.

"Erik." I sighed as I placed my hand on his chest and felt his heart thump against his rib cage. So many times late in the night I had held my hand over his chest, content with the beat of his heart, the way he laid beside me in the darkness and ran his fingers through my hair. He had made me feel delicate and feminine, worthy of soft caresses and breathy sighs. Just as he dedicated himself to his music, when I was his focus, he was extremely attentive, no detail missed. He sated every desire, set fire to every nerve within my body.

He drew me closer, wrapping his arms around me as he rested his chin against the top of my head. I felt him shiver, heard him inhale sharply as we stood together in the cold, damp night.

No matter what, he still had my heart.

"I never knew," he said quietly. He paused and took a breath as though the air had been punched from his lungs. "I never knew you…you loved me."

I tilted my face up and met his sullen gaze. I couldn't imagine a lifetime spent in solitude.

"I wish I had known," he said sadly. "I wish you had told me."

Gently I placed my hand against his right cheek and held my palm steady when he tried to look away from me. He breathed harder, his body tense, his eyes wide with concern. I had expressed my love for him in every way I knew possible, in every way he would allow.

"Don't do this to yourself," he murmured, his voice filled with panic.

"Do you think this hurts me?" I whispered back, stroking his face. "I'm not afraid or ashamed of you," I told him.

"Not yet," he breathed. He swallowed hard and started to shake his head, but I forced his gaze to mine.

"Erik, I knew all along," I said softly. "I loved you for reasons you couldn't see, not what you chose to hide."

A tear slipped down his cheek and he stilled, fighting himself to regain composure. In the back of my mind I could see him within the opera house, this brilliant, talented man far removed from the world. I could see him hiding away, ashamed of himself…and falling into nothingness when Christine left him.

I wondered how much of his life he had shared with her, if she knew of the marks on his back, if she knew how deeply he hurt inside, how much he craved to be accepted.

"This isn't an end," I promised him. He closed his eyes and I pursed my lips. "Erik, swear to me this is not the end."

His green eyes opened and he blinked at me. His lips twitched, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His expression fluctuated between shock and relief, as though he had no idea he was given a choice.

"Julia, I—"

"Erik, I know. I know," I whispered. The look in his eyes, the way he shuddered at my touch…that was apology enough.

He touched my chin with his index finger and tilted my face up toward his. He closed his eyes and kissed me softly on the lips. I felt him tremble when I kissed him back and I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"I will see you tomorrow evening," I said as I drew myself away from him.

He blinked, breathless and dazed by a chaste kiss. "And then what?" he asked hoarsely as he attempted to step closer.

I offered a coy smile and shrugged, feigning innocence. "Then we shall see."

He attempted to kiss me again, but I shook my head. I feared Meg would catch us in an intimate moment—or worse—some nosy neighbor spying from their darkened window. From over his shoulder I saw the coach driver fully turned toward us.

"Good night," I said firmly as I reached for the door handle.

"Good night," he replied smoothly, a twinkle in his eyes.

A familiar spark returned to his gaze, a passionate glow that always made my breath hitch. He brushed a warm kiss against the back of my hand and exhaled against my fingers, his gaze trained on mine all the while.

In an instant he threatened to unravel me. My pulse quickened, my belly tightened. With just one heated glance he had me wanting more. His tone made two simple words inviting, irresistible beyond belief.

"Shame on you," I said as I wagged my finger at him.

He gawked at me, his eyes wide. He truly had no idea how he effected my good senses. "I have done nothing," he argued.

I smiled back. "You know precisely what you do," I said before I stepped inside and closed the door.

"Ah, for the love of God," I heard him mutter as he walked away.

For a long moment I stood pressed to the barrier between us. My heart still raced, skin tingled from a simple kiss to the back of my hand.

"Delirious," I whispered, though I grinned wildly in the dark. "That man makes me delirious."

I sighed to myself and tiptoed into the parlor where the soft glow of candlelight drew my attention.

Meg sat with her arms crossed and perked up when I entered.

"Alex is home safe," I told her before she could ask.

"Oh, thank God. Mother and I prayed he would safely return. He was at their hotel, then?"

"Beneath the opera house," I corrected.

She gawked back at me. "The opera house? Through the tunnel?"

Apparently I was the only one unaware of its existence.

"Yes, through the tunnel. How did you know?"

She pursed her lips and shrugged. "I've been there, long ago…when Christine disappeared. Why was Alex down there?" she asked, quickly changing the subject.

"He wanted to escape from his mother."

"She's hardly his mother," Meg said with disgust.

I nodded. "Alex has been brought up with great care," I told her, knowing how much she cared for him. "No doubt thanks in part to you, your mother, and your husband."

"You're too kind. There are days when I adore that child and others when I could wring his curious neck." Meg chuckled to herself and sighed in relief.

I grunted. "I feel the same about his father."

Meg smiled then immediately looked at my hand and gasped. "My goodness, what in the world happened?" she asked.

"Christine," I answered vaguely. "She cut me in their hotel."

"She cut you? With what?"

I hurriedly explained our encounter and she nodded slowly, her face pale and eyes filled with concern.

"How awful," she said once I finished. "Julia, I am so very sorry."

I took a seat beside her and exhaled. "At least Alex is safe."

"Will Christine attempt to claim him, do you think?" she asked, keeping her voice low as though she worried our conversation would be overheard.

"No." I shook my head. "I wouldn't think so."

I sincerely doubted Raoul would allow her a chance at doing such.

Meg looked me over and bit her bottom lip. "She was never good to him," she blurted out.

I raised a brow. "To who? Alex?"

She shook her head. "No…to _him_."

"Erik?" I questioned.

"Yes," she said, nodding readily.

I sat back and rubbed my forehead. Though my eyelids felt heavy and my head began to ache, I wanted to know what had happened from her perspective.

Erik and Meg had a curious relationship. She had never said his given name, as far as I knew, and Erik always seemed to mention her with an air of irritation in his voice, which seemed to be the way he spoke of everyone he cared about.

They shared the same house, but they seemed like strangers to one another.

"What do you mean?" I asked at last, blatantly fishing for answers.

Meg looked away and balled her hands in her skirt. "I remember the first time she spoke of him."


	60. An Unknown Past

J59 retry

Meg studied her hands in her lap, avoiding my gaze. Her tone had sounded remorseful and I wondered if she pitied him, this man who shared her home yet evidentially not much of her life.

"She was very cruel to him, from what I gather," I said, hoping my words would prompt her to continue.

She readily nodded. "She twisted him," she said, keeping her voice low. "Wound him as tight as she could around her finger."

Her words surprised me, as I knew she had been close friends with Christine in their younger days and had kept in contact over the years.

"I think he willingly bent for her," I replied.

"Perhaps at first, though I don't think he saw much of a choice toward the end," she said morosely.

_The end_, I thought. There had not been an end, only suspension.

"Do you know from the time I was very small, I thought of him as two different people?" Meg offered quietly.

I looked away from her and frowned. For the five years I had known him, he had been two different people to me. I found the idea of _the Phantom_ and the reserved composer Erik Kire as two very separate entities. One I loved without question, the other seemed a distant memory, a fable of sorts.

Erik had not cornered Raoul de Chagny in the Wisteria hotel. The strength and determination, the power in his voice and his every move belonged to the Phantom. The man who had searched for his son, who had chosen to forgive his parents…that had been Erik.

"There was mother's very reserved and—forgive me—strange friend Erik, whom I was not allowed to speak of to the others," Meg told me. "And then there was the opera ghost, the creature who haunted and controlled the theater. I was only afraid of one of them."

"How did she meet him?" I asked.

"Who? My mother or Christine?"

I thought a moment. "Both."

Meg hesitated. "Mother found him in the traveling fair when she was in the prime of her career," she explained. "She would never tell me everything, but she did tell me he was chained and caged in an enormous tent filled with the oddities of the world."

I furrowed my brow and nodded. There had been no mention of cages or chains. There had been no description of being held or exhibited.

"The gypsies treated him as more of an animal than a human being. She said the rest of the people on exhibit were at the front, then the performing animals, and lastly…him. They had a banner advertising a creature that had crawled from the depths of hell." She paused and took a breath. "There was an extra fee, as he was…unique."

I held my breath and suppressed a shiver. In his words he had "traveled briefly with a band of ignorant thieves and nomadic wanderers". He made his travels sound inconsequential, as though he had stayed with them out of boredom, not because he was bound, caged, and exhibited for a fee.

"Why?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"His face," she answered, her voice quivering. "And his voice."

I crossed my arms over my chest. His voice could hypnotize and command in one breath, then plead in the next. I had heard him taunt Louis to his death, but I had also overheard him talking to his Bassett hound while they walked at night. He could grumble incessantly over Testan's latest review at the start of the night and leave me breathless at the end.

"Mother said he was ordered to remove the sack covering his head and he refused. The man kicked him several times and the crowd laughed, so the man continued to beat him. He even encouraged another gentleman—if he could be called such—t o spit on him and club him with a cane."

"My God," I said under my breath. I couldn't even begin to comprehend the extent of suffering and humiliation he had experienced, how he had been tormented in front of others. I considered the scars on his back, how he would issue a sharp glance and guide my hands away.

The apartments beneath the opera house started to make sense now that she told me how her mother had found him. Staying away from such cruelty, from the threat of ignorance, seemed a viable choice. Solitude was void of beatings and humiliation. Physically he was safe, though emotionally I suspected he rotted away.

"She said she started to leave, but when she looked back, the man had ripped the sack from his head and she met his eyes…Erik's eyes," she said. A tear slipped down her cheek. "She always said when she looked at him, she couldn't leave him there to suffer. He stared at every person gawking and laughing at him, watched them even as they pummeled him with rocks and cruel words. She said he never appeared to flinch, not even when welts formed."

I inhaled sharply, realizing the consequences of my curiosity. Finding him nearly beaten to death in an alley was still fresh in my mind. I wondered if the recent events reminded him of his past.

"Then," Meg said softly, "…then he was ordered to sing."

Her words sent a chill down my spine. "Did he?"

Meg nodded. "Mother said his voice silenced the crowd. He stared at her the entire time, the only person within the tent who had not laughed or taunted him. She said he looked at her as though she were familiar to him."

In my mind, I pictured a young and stoic Madame Giry deep within a crowd of onlookers surrounding an iron cage. I could picture Erik standing before them, his eyes fixed on this young girl with her hair in ribbons. I wondered if she had been the first to look at him with compassion and pity, though I doubted he would welcome either.

"What did she do?" I asked, my voice fading away with emotion. Thinking of him as a spectacle upset me. I longed to erase the years he'd spent tormented by others. I wanted him to forget the two decades he'd spent alone in the opera house.

"She waited," Meg answered cryptically. "She waited in the shadows until the crowd passed through and she came back to him. Somehow she ended up freeing him from the cage, though she would never tell me how. All she would ever say is that she took him by the hand and never looked back."

Madame Giry had never struck me as the type of woman to attend a fair, especially one advertising a man who had come from the depths of hell.

She was always curt when she spoke, a woman accustomed to disciplining dancers and ordering the actors around on the stage if they stood in her path. I couldn't imagine her spending an evening out at a frivolous sideshow. An evening in prayer suited her better, however, I was glad she had found him.

"Why did she free him?" I asked, choking back a sob.

"Because he needed out," she replied as though the answer was obvious.

"She risked her life, her career," I pointed out. "If she had been caught…if the gendarmes had seen her…"

I wondered if the gendarmes would have considered Erik as stolen property. Clearly he wasn't considered human if he'd been caged alone, away from the other performers and animals. He had always kept his distance, though now his actions seemed voluntary.

"She risked her sanity and her beliefs by turning away," Meg said as she wiped her eyes. "A weaker person would have left him behind."

I nodded, wondering what I would have done if I had seen him. Madame had acted in compassion and bravery, she had freed him out of mercy rather than pity. She was very protective of him and now I understood the bond she felt. Whatever she had seen in him that night, she undoubtedly still saw in him.

"Do you know what the dancers called her when she became the ballet troupe lead?" Meg asked.

I shook my head.

"Mother Giry," she answered proudly. "She honestly took care of anyone who needed assistance. If a dancer lost her shoes, she always managed to find another pair. If there was a tenor missing a button from his shirt, she sewed it back on seconds before he took to the stage. She spoke fondly of him—Erik—when I was a child. She would have done anything for him."

Unfortunately, he was not the type of person who allowed others to care for him.

"How old was he when she found him?"

Meg thought a moment. She tapped her fingers on her leg and pursed her lips. "This was thirty years ago, I believe. He must have been fourteen or fifteen at the most, I would think."

A young man of such an age would be uncertain of himself, no matter his background or station in life. He would not have been considered a child, yet he was not a man, either. I feared the impressions of ignorant strangers would never be completely undone.

"How did he become part of the traveling fair?"

Meg shrugged. "I don't think he has ever said. Mother may know, but he's never said a word to me."

"Madame has known him for a long time," I commented. He'd had at least some stability over the years, whether he wanted to admit to their relationship or not.

"Off and on," Meg replied with a shrug.

I furrowed my brow. "What do you mean?"

"He left the opera house for a while," Meg answered vaguely. "Traveled to the Orient."

Her words made me shudder. "Why would he have left?"

Meg picked at her fingernails and avoided my gaze. "I have no idea," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if he left on his own accord."

Her voice seemed slightly higher than before and I assumed she knew more than she was willing to tell. From the handful of startled outbursts Erik had on the nights he fell asleep beside me, I assumed in his own home these memories—night terrors—happened more frequently. In a small house with thin walls, I could only imagine what she had heard him utter in the middle of the night.

"He has said a woman's name before," I said softly. "When he wakes suddenly."

Meg pursed her lips, her eyes wide. She offered a slow, hesitant nod. "Yes," she quietly. "I've heard him shout in the middle of the night." I could tell she had no desire to continue and I decided not to press.

That was a story for Erik to tell me in his own time.

"Please," Meg said suddenly, desperation behind her words. "Please, Julia, do not tell him of our conversation."

"I won't," I promised.

"He would be very upset," she blurted out. "Furious."

Mortified, I thought. Ashamed. Embarrassed. He wanted to be seen for his quiet strength, more of a statue than a human being. As a sentinel he could garner respect and seem impervious to insults and cruelty, but I knew him better than that.

He was still deeply affected by his past, still unable to recover from being exhibited as a strange creature. He was kept alone; separated from the other oddities as well as animals. Was he above them or considered further below?

"Julia?" Meg questioned when I didn't answer.

"I wish he had told me," I said at last.

"He would never want you or Alex to know." She stood and balled her hands into fists. "Julia, I would not blame him."

"I don't," I assured her. In part I blamed myself for never asking him.

"When Charles returned from war, he was very different," Meg offered. "The wheelchair was only part of what had changed about him. There are horrors he witnessed and survived that he will never voice to me, and at times I am angry with him for keeping his emotions inside, but I know he's not ready to tell me. When and if he is, I will listen."

"I doubt Erik would tell me willingly. He went through hell alone," I said sadly.

"I suspect hell is a lonely place," Meg replied.

She was correct. I had been there as well—and I would have still been there if not for Erik.

I hadn't considered Erik and Charles as similar, but in their own ways they had seen and experienced more than I would ever comprehend. Charles surrounded himself with friends and his family and seemed well-adjusted. Meg's words made me wonder if he harbored more darkness than I realized.

Erik kept his life so tightly clutched in his grasp but yet his past still seemed to strangle him.

He would always argue for the sake of argument, treating disagreement like a sport. I wondered what he hid behind his surly nature. In our five years together, I had only seen a glimpse of him, yet I knew there was much more. Behind his gruff personality, his stomping about and his grumbles, was a man completely unaccustomed to affection.

A young man kept within a cage, exposed before paying crowds for his faults…he had not been shown any affection. Considering this type of mistreatment, I was surprised he could trust anyone.

"How did the two of you…meet?" Meg asked. She chose her words carefully, perhaps afraid she would insult me if she asked what had landed Erik in my home and in my bed.

"He never told you?"

"He tells me nothing," she answered. Her tone hinted at disappointment.

"I practically assaulted him on the street one night," I admitted. The thought made me chuckle.

Meg tilted her head to the side. "I beg your pardon?"

"He walked the same time each night," I explained. "One night, I just happened to be out when I stopped him. He was not exactly one for conversation, though I have since convinced myself he was far too startled to speak." I shrugged. "But there was something about him."

"His irritation with the world?" Meg teased.

"Yes, exactly," I replied, amused by her words. She was fond of him, I knew, though she wouldn't dare tell him and I doubted he would ever allow a display of affection.

"Did you know who he was?" she asked, her tone much more sober. "What he was called, I mean?"

"About the phantom of the opera?"

Meg pursed her lips and nodded, clearly too embarrassed to verbally agree.

"I did," I said. "But as you stated, he was two different people. He is not that man anymore."

"No, he is not. He's a better person since Christine gave him Alexandre," she told me with the slightest hint of a smile. "And he's more tolerable since he met you."

"Tolerable?"

Tolerable seemed a fitting way to describe him—or intolerable, perhaps.

"You know precisely what I mean," Meg said with a smile. "Unless love has blinded you."

I laughed louder than I had intended. "Love, I think, has made me see clearer."

"Do you love him?" Meg asked suddenly. She clasped her hands and stared hopefully at me.

"As astounding as this may seem, I find his levels of irritation to be charming," I confessed. "What in heaven's name does that say about me?"

Meg rubbed her tired eyes and grinned. "You've seen him as no one else has in the past," she answered.

I nodded, feeling as though I had seen him in a way he hadn't yet viewed himself.

"What about Christine?" I asked.

Her face darkened. "I don't know if she ever really saw him. They had music and loneliness in common," she started. "There was nothing else they shared."


	61. An Angel By Mistake

Julia60

Meg's words saddened me. Considering how much of Erik's life he had dedicated to Christine, he'd left the opera house with nothing.

"He always spoke fondly of her, though now that I think about it, I don't recall him ever elaborating on their relationship," I admitted.

Meg wrinkled her nose. "There was never a relationship," she said harshly.

"What do you mean?"

"She wouldn't allow him friendship, let alone something more," she replied.

"But…they have a son together," I pointed out.

She nodded. "You know as well as I do that not all children are conceived from loving relationships," she said.

The idea sickened me, especially considering how much Erik had cherished Christine. When he spoke of her, he sounded as though she were a deity amongst mortals.

"I think she treated him more as an entity than a person."

I furrowed my brow. "How did they meet?"

"I honestly believe Christine first saw him on accident," Meg said. "At the time, her words didn't seem relevant since the theater is such a superstitious place anyhow, but I remembering her saying a man had come to her when she was praying for her father."

"Come to her?" I questioned. This hardly seemed like an accident.

Meg shrugged. "I don't think he expected anyone in the chapel late at night since the dancers would be off drinking and celebrating, and the singers would be surrounded by theater patrons. Mother's flat was down the hall and I think he meant to take the back stairs and cut through the chapel to speak with her. Instead he stumbled upon Christine."

"The angel," I said under my breath.

"Yes, she always referred to him as an angel, at least for the most part. I suppose seeing a mysterious stranger ascend the stairs with a candle in hand is enough to fuel imagination."

A single phrase from a dear friend told me more about Erik's first encounter with Christine than he'd ever told me himself.

For a child who had been led to believe he was the work of the devil, for a young man who had been cast from the rest of the world based on his appearance, I imagined a young girl's perception of an angel coming to her aid was a welcomed change.

He had wanted to be accepted, and though her image of him was skewed, her words were undoubtedly flattering. Madame Giry had found and saved the devil's child; Christine had conjured an ethereal being come to save her. Surrounded by a world of fantasy, there was little wonder why they'd never had a concrete relationship.

"She told me one evening in Mother's flat that the angel hid from her and she wouldn't see him again unless she was very good," Meg explained. "She said this was proof her father had gone to heaven. I'll never forget the look on Mother's face when she said those words. We both knew precisely who she had seen."

"What did your mother say?" I asked. I couldn't imagine her being pleased with Christine's discovery given how Madame had whisked Erik away and helped him find shelter.

"She told Christine to leave the angel be." Meg's shoulders dropped. "She was very concerned the managers would find him."

"But they didn't?"

Meg shook her head. "There would be nights when I could hear Christine screaming from the top of her lungs for her angel to return to her," she said. "We thought she'd gone mad."

"Did he return?" I asked.

She nodded. "Eventually. He kept mostly to himself then."

"He stayed away?" I couldn't imagine him voluntarily staying away, especially if Christine screamed for him to return to her.

"He had only recently returned," Meg explained. She hesitated. "From his…travels."

Her words made me hold my breath, as I knew what travels she spoke of.

"I remember him visiting Mother," she continued. "He didn't think I was in the flat with her, and when I saw him…he looked terrible, so gaunt and distressed. His eyes were red and he spoke so softly, as though he feared being heard. When he noticed me in the doorway, he apologized for frightening me and left in a hurry."

My heart sank as I imagined him leaving the only person who truly knew him for the darkest, most dank place I had ever seen.

"Mother didn't see him again, at least not that I was aware, for a good six months after that," Meg explained. "He looked so terrible when he left I didn't think we'd ever see him again."

My lips parted as I remember what she had said about him leaving. I wondered what effect his absence had on a child who believed strongly in her father's apparent divine intervention—and what solitude did to a man who had clearly suffered many hardships in the Orient.

"I don't mean his face was terrible," she said quickly, throwing her hands up in the air. "But all of him, really. He was frail when he returned, unable or unwilling to eat or sleep. Mother told him to stay close because she feared for his health, but of course he didn't listen. He didn't pay her a visit for a long time, so she went to look for him."

"And he didn't expect her to come looking for him?"

"No," she said plainly. "He's never expected anyone to look after him or care for him."

This was unfortunately true and I knew from experience. He didn't want help, let alone expect anyone to assist him.

"Why does he do that?" I asked, despite assuming there was no valid reason.

She made a face and shrugged, which was answer enough. There was no consolation in knowing his stubbornness lacked all sense to someone who had known him twenty years.

I suspected Madame and I shared a similar trait—the desire to care for others. Caring for him would have been simple if not for his complete resistance on every level. I wondered why she continued to try, other than she matched his stubborn nature and refused to give up on him. If not for Madame Giry, I doubted he would have survived.

"Do you know one time he came to visit mother wearing only one glove? He kept his right hand behind his back and when Mother asked him, he said there was nothing wrong. Well, she of course knew he was lying and bumped the table, which knocked over a vase. He caught it with his left hand, but forgot himself and revealed his other hand as well."

I furrowed my brow. "Was he injured?"

"He'd been bitten by something. No telling what considering where he lived, but his whole hand had swelled up where he couldn't make a fist. Mother nearly fainted. She was furious with him. Made him sit for a full hour in her flat and soak his hand in warm water. He stayed put, but he scowled like a child."

"What happened when she found him?" I asked, dreading the answer. "After he had gone missing," I clarified.

Meg lowered her gaze. "He was very sick. I remember Mother returning to our flat in a rush late at night and telling me to dress quickly. We entered through the cellar and walked for what felt like an eternity in almost complete darkness. I kept asking her what would happen if the lamp went dark and she said we were in no danger. Julia, I honestly felt as though we were traveling into hell. The air was so damp, the rats were everywhere…and he lived there for almost twenty years."

"You went to him?" I asked, unable to imagine timid, sweet Meg within that horrible place searching for a man who didn't want to be found.

Meg nodded. "He needed someone with him, even if he was too bull-headed to realize how ill he'd become."

"What do you think happened to him?" I asked.

"Quite frankly, I don't know how he survived in a cellar so long without becoming ill, other than he grew accustomed to the utter darkness," Meg said. She shuddered. "I felt as though we were within a tomb, Julia. The walls of stone, the damp air…mice and rats and all sorts of creatures scurrying in the shadows. His own apartments were furnished, but still…even the brief time we stayed with him was enough for me."

"How long did you stay?"

"We stayed with him for several hours and Mother made him eat and swear he would come to her the following day."

"Did he?"

Meg smiled. "He left a note while we were in rehearsals that stated she was not to issue him orders. Mother scoffed and tore it to shreds. The next few days he watched our rehearsals from his private box."

"Did Christine ask about him?"

Meg shook her head. "Not that I recall, but that's when he heard Christine audition for a small singing role in the next production. This was around Christmas and she started to spend all of her time either rehearsing or in the chapel. I remember when she was singing, Mother stared at the box to the right of the stage. She must have seen him there, listening to her. At the time I'm sure she was glad he was out of the cellar."

"He taught her, then? For that role?"

"Yes, that's when he returned to her. Christine walked into the dormitories after she prayed for her father and told the older dancers the angel of music had returned to her. She was elated."

And so a lonely, suffering young man saw his usefulness in the life of an equally lonely, suffering young girl who could sing.

He had returned from a place that had left him physically and emotionally scarred, had hidden away from the rest of the world in complete darkness surrounded only by music, and had surfaced to find a young girl elated by his presence. I imagined he'd found acceptance in her as well as kinship for an appreciation of music and theater.

"I honestly don't know if I should feel sorry for him or happy he found someone to teach," I said.

"Mother was happy for him at first as she hoped that by teaching Christine he would eventually reveal himself. She thought the opera house manager would appreciate a talented vocal coach, but he refused."

I sighed in disgust. "He's impossible," I scoffed.

"I think he feared their reaction and rightfully so," Meg replied. "For years Christine only heard his voice."

My eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

Meg blinked as though surprised by my question. "He taught Christine through her mirror or in the chapel. She never saw him, other than the night by accident when she first met him."

"Honestly?"

She nodded. "For years, no one but Mother saw him. He didn't want to be known."

I wondered if he hid because he didn't yet trust her or he feared her reaction. I assumed both were valid reasons. Of course by remaining hidden he was also able to effectively haunt the theater, which undoubtedly gave him the upper hand and kept him from being ridiculed by strangers.

"Christine started to make up stories about her angel of music and how he would rescue her."

"Rescue her?" I questioned. "From what?"

Meg shrugged. "From the day she arrived, she had a vivid imagination. Over the years, however, her fears escalated. She talked about goblins and demons, then spirits sent to drag her father from heaven. In one moment she was perfectly content, in the next she was frantic."

"She was unwell," I said under my breath.

Meg inhaled and nodded. "No one realized the extent of her illness, not until much later…and by then the Phantom was sensationalized and new managers came into the theater. There was too much else happening for anyone to pay attention to a dramatic chorus girl."

I wondered if Erik noticed the changes in Christine or if he'd been too enamored with her presence to give her fluctuating emotions much thought. He could be incredibly observant at times and blind in others, especially when perception involved another person's feelings.

"I cannot even imagine," I said as I shook my head.

"I wanted to believe Christine since she seemed genuinely upset, but her voice improved and there was talk of her traveling to Vienna to sing and eventually becoming lead soprano. She thanked her teacher when she prayed, but still she cursed him when she walked into the dormitories and told the other girls. Nothing she said made sense, but no one questioned her. She was talented; the managers saw her as income."

"She twisted him," I said, remembering Meg's words.

"Once the vicomte became a patron, everything changed."

"He must have walked into a nightmare."

"He—Erik—would be livid with me for saying this, but I felt very sorry for the vicomte. He had no idea Christine was living at the opera house or that she had acquired a teacher. He knew nothing at all until the situation unfolded. Honestly, I doubted either of them—Erik and the vicomte, I mean, truly understood what she did. I don't think she understood her own actions…and then of course she conceived a child."

My mouth dropped open. "You knew?" I asked. I had always thought Alex was kept a secret until she dropped him at Erik's doorstep.

Meg shrugged. "She told me she had been blessed by God and would give birth to a son," she said. "Then a few weeks later she told me Satan had deceived her and forced her to lie with him. Her words frightened me."

"And then she brought Alex to Erik," I said under my breath.

"I thought she had been rid of him, as she had said. When she pounded on the door and handed a screaming child to my mother, we were both shocked. Mother had no idea and I…well, I thought she had done something to prevent him from being born."

Goosebumps rose along my arms. I wondered what had prevented her from ending her pregnancy; if madness kept her from harming her own child or months of clarity spared Alex's an angel had watched over her—and Alex.

Meg stayed silent for a long moment. The situation brought tears to my eyes, as I honestly couldn't imagine Erik's life without his son.

"I'm ashamed to admit, but I begged Mother to send Alex away when Christine left," she confessed. She gazed at me, appearing horrified by her confession.

"Because you didn't think Erik was capable of caring for him?"

She pursed her lips. "Yes. When he took Alex from my mother's arms, he carried him upstairs and I had no idea what he would do with him."

"Or how he would know what to do with a newborn," I added.

She nodded and wrung her hands. "He would be angry with me for thinking horribly of him, for ever insinuating he was not a decent father to his son."

I stood and Meg did the same. "No, I don't think Erik would be angry with you," I said as she followed me through the house and to the kitchen.

"I beg your pardon?"

We stood at the back door, the house dark and quiet. As exhausted as I felt, I looked forward to sunlight and the start of a new day.

"After tonight, I think he will look at the past differently."

Meg offered a wan smile. "I hope for Alex's sake he sees himself differently," she said. She pursed her lips and looked away. "Alex needs him. Knowing what I do now, I realize Alex always needed him in his life."

I nodded. "I know."

"Does Erik realize this?"

Her words sounded angry, almost resentful. I knew she had taken on the responsibility of caring for Alex while Erik pursued Christine again. At times I forgot how long she had known Erik, yet how distant they had remained.

"I think he understands what he risked losing," I assured her.

She seemed satisfied at last and opened the back door. "He's fortunate to have you. I hope he understands what he's had in his life."

"He's fortunate to have you, your mother, and your husband as well."

Meg blushed and turned to leave. "Thank you. Your words mean a lot to me."

"You and Charles will be wonderful parents," I said.

She grinned. "Good night, Julia."

I closed the door and stood motionless for a long moment. I felt as though I stood on the edge of a vast and turbulent ocean and had only seen a glimpse of what Erik had experienced. There was far more to understand—if cruelty could indeed be understood. He had endured more than I had ever realized, more than any person should have tolerated in a lifetime. Considering what he had survived, I was surprised he could tolerate any human interaction.

In time, I hoped he would realize he wasn't alone. In time, I hoped he would allow himself the company of others.


	62. Lisette's Concerns

Julia61

My hand was tender and throbbing when I woke the following morning. Several times I tossed and turned, mindful of my injury. Over and over I saw Christine's twisted expression, the malice and hatred in her eyes, the way her nostrils flared. She looked murderous—and I had been her intended target.

I worried she would appear at first light and threaten to take Alex away or send the gendarmes for Erik. I hoped her husband would watch over her, keep her confined to their hotel room while she was consumed by her rage and fits. I felt a great swell of pity for Raoul de Chagny and the duty he had in keeping her illness secret.

Overwhelmed, my mind raced and body trembled. I knew our lives would never be the same, no matter what the new day brought.

Caring for Erik in my home had taken its toll and I longed to sleep the day away, knowing the meeting in the evening would most likely try my patience. I hoped Erik could remain civil with the Comte, whom I thought was sincere in his offer to assist Alexandre financially and make sure his wife's son was cared for in the only way he could help. Raoul showed incredibly respect not only for Erik, but for his son born out of wedlock. I couldn't imagine a man in his station making such an offer.

Instead of much-needed sleep, I managed a restless four hours of tossing and waking suddenly, jolted from my sleep by too many thoughts.

I wondered what Erik would have said or thought if he'd been beside me and seen my fitful sleep. Nightmares had rarely plagued me, but the night after our search for Alex, I was restless.

With the sun shining through the bedroom window, I woke to Lissy perched beside me on the bed, dressed in a light pink and green night gown and her hair in ribbons, most likely brushed out by Meg and tied back.

"Mother," she said the moment I opened my eyes.

Her voice startled me. "What's wrong?" I asked, still not fully awake.

"Is Alex safe?" she whispered as though she dreaded the possibilities.

"Yes." I yawned. "Yes, Lissy, he's fine. We would not have returned without him safe."

"Did his mother try to steal him? Did she try to murder him?" she asked frantically.

"No, he was found quite safe. You have no need to worry."

She looked very earnest and grown up on the empty side of the bed. I noticed her hesitating and knew she was not yet finished.

"What's wrong?" I questioned.

She leaned in closer and licked her lips. "What happened to his father?" she asked.

There was fear behind her words. She had only seen Erik on a handful of occasions and always at a distance. Thankfully she took Alex's words as gospel and believed the mysterious Monsieur Kire was a wonderful, talented composer who could not be disturbed when he was writing his music.

Her concern for him surprised me, as they had never communicated, at least to my knowledge.

"He's fine," I told her. "Grateful to have Alex home safe and getting rest after a long night, I'm sure."

"Are you certain he is well?" she asked.

"Positive," I answered. I rubbed my eyes with my good hand and studied her. "Liss, you needn't be upset."

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "Would you please ask Madame Lowry? Or may I ask her?"

After what had transpired in the night, I imagined most of the household was still fast asleep.

"What frightens you?" I asked. She wasn't normally the type to be so insistent. "They're both safe, I promise."

"Alex said his mother would have his father executed," she blurted out, the tears welling in her eyes. "He said if she saw him again and he refused to love her, she would kill Monsieur Kire. She swore he would be torn to bits, consumed by rats."

"Lissy," I said breathlessly. Christine had done more damage than anyone would have realized. She had fed her abandoned son terrible stories and threats. "He will be fine, I promise."

My stomach turned. I felt more afraid for Erik than I had at the start of the night. Christine had a vicious streak, a desire to hurt him worse than Erik understood. I hoped her husband would coax her into leaving Paris and forgetting what ha transpired.

"How do you know for certain she won't come for Alex and kill his father? How do you know that man won't return and murder Monsieur Kire?"

I sat up and placed my good hand on her shoulder, attempting to settle her fears. "We had a very long discussion with the Comte de Chagny," I said, explaining his relation to Christine. "He wants what is best for Alex and understands how much Monsieur Kire is needed by his loved ones."

She looked skeptical at first, and I wondered how Erik would have reacted if he'd known my daughter's concerns not only for her dear friend, but for his illusive father. Always worried about how others perceived him, he focused on the horrors and missed the good.

Our relationship was concrete proof of that.

"Do you miss him?" Lissy asked.

"Who?" I questioned.

She scooted closer and reclined, resting her head on the pillow. Following her lead, I lay beside her and smoothed her hair back.

"Monsieur Kire," she said with an exasperated sigh.

"He's only just returned home," I answered, attempting to be reasonable. "But yes, a little."

"Madame Giry said she hoped he behaved while he was here," she said, her tone very matter of fact. "She said she hopes he was not too much trouble."

_Behaved_ was not a word synonymous with Erik. I couldn't help but smile at Lissy's words, directly reported from Madame herself.

"I'm certain he's happy to be home once more," I said.

Lissy closed her eyes and smiled. "I wish he wasn't always working on his music when I visit Alex," she said remorsefully. "Monsieur Kire shuts the door when he hears my voice."

"Sometimes artists need complete concentration," I remarked.

She scrunched up her nose as though she didn't believe a word I said. "Alex said his father is writing the most beautiful music ever to be heard," she said.

I smiled, wondering if Alex had come to that conclusion on his own or if Erik, in a moment of arrogance, had told his son he needed absolute silence in the house in order to compose the most beautiful music ever heard.

"Have you heard him play?"

She nodded readily. "Always." She scooted closer and laced her fingers with mine. "Why does he ignore me?" she asked.

I frowned. As much as Erik longed to be accepted, he unintentionally pushed everyone away. He had grown so accustomed to rejection that he'd become a master of isolation. I doubted he'd ever considered the possibility of insulting someone simply by avoiding them. In his mind, he most likely thought he acted out of kindness and spared her the horror of seeing him.

When Alex concluded his studies for the day, he and Lissy spent long hours playing together either in my home or Erik's. I hadn't given much thought to her spending a few hours with Alex, though I had never realized this meant Erik locked himself away.

"He's self-conscious," I answered vaguely. "He keeps to himself."

"But why?" she pressed.

I knew my answer would not suffice, though I wasn't quite sure how to explain him to her as Erik was not a simple man. Lissy wouldn't accept that he was self-conscious, she would want to know precisely why her best friend's father avoided so much as seeing her walk into his home.

I thought for a moment. "He was injured long ago," I started.

"By who?" she asked. She scrunched up her face as though she considered avenging him.

"He was born with a scar on his face, Lissy. Many people were very unkind to him because of this, so he has always kept his injury hidden."

Her eyes popped open and she nodded, clearly concerned for his well-being. "The other face," she whispered.

"Did Alex tell you?" I asked.

She nodded. "He said his father has a white face, a black face, and his other face, but no one sees the other face."

"Yes," I said sadly. "He doesn't want anyone to see the other face."

"Have you seen his other face?" she questioned.

"I have." Her question reminded me of the night I had pulled the mask from his face, how he had fought me in desperation to keep himself hidden.

I had learned more about him in a matter of days than I had ever known in half a decade.

"You have?" she gasped. "Alex told me he hasn't seen his other face since he was a baby. His father won't allow him to see it."

I tilted my head and pursed my lips. Erik would never risk Alex rejecting or fearing him. "Lissy, there are certain features we all dislike about ourselves," I attempted to explain. "And you understand it is rude to ask someone about what makes them uncomfortable."

"How did you see the other face?" she asked, as I suspected she would. The more she visited with Alex, the more insatiable her curiosity.

_By making him terribly uncomfortable_, I thought.

"He was hurt," I said to her. "He needed my help, and when someone you care for greatly needs your assistance, you do whatever you can for them. He was in a great deal of pain when I saw his face, but he understood I wished to help him."

She snuggled in closer and let out a deep sigh. "Thank you," she said, kissing my forehead.

"For what, my dear?" I asked.

"For saving Alex's father," she answered.

I held her tighter, amazed at her compassion. With how fondly he spoke of his son and how Alex adored his father, I had often wished we had engaged in a proper courtship. I wondered if Erik would have been so deeply affected by Christine's return to Paris if we had supper with our children at the table and evenings spent in the parlor while they played.

Now I worried Lisette would be frightened of him because of his mask and I feared their mutual reaction to one another. While not one to scare easily, I was concerned of how she would respond to Erik. She was fond of my cousin Anthony, though most other men she seemed to shy away from.

My stomach turned at the thought of where her trepidation took root.

"Alex's father needed him," I replied. "And so do I."

"Alex would be sad without his father," she told me, sounding incredibly grown up. "He was sad when he met his mother. She was not very nice to him and said very mean things about Monsieur Kire."

"I know," I said remorsefully wondering what ideals Alex had devised before they had met. Each time he spoke, I doubted there was a child born with a more vivid imagination. He probably expected a woman matching his father's attentiveness, someone who cared enough to listen to him speak until he ran out of the breath.

Before word of Christine's imminent return, Erik had been enamored with his son. They spent long hours together and Erik spoke of him fondly. His son meant the world to him, which was why his resurrected infatuation with Christine came as a surprise. He had forgotten everyone in favor of the woman who had left him behind, including the son she had given him.

I couldn't understand how he could so easily disgard Alex, replacing the hours they spent together with days of solitude as he riffled through the daily paper for details on her performance at the exhibition.

Alex was the spitting image of his mother and I knew when Erik looked at him, he saw the woman he had longed to see again. After a year spent on a foolish and selfish endeavor, he had gone in search of Alex not to retrieve Christine, but the son he had forgotten he adored.

"You should be his mother," Lisette said suddenly. "He's here every day anyhow," she reasoned. "Do you think his father would mind sharing him as his son?"

Her words made me chuckle . How easy our lives would have been if we followed the whims of children. "I would have to ask Monsieur Kire if he would mind."

"Do you think Monsieur Kire would ever want a daughter?" she asked, her voice sounding sleepy.

Honestly I suspected the idea of a daughter would have frightened him half to death. I could not picture him being accosted by a little girl and dragged to a tea party. He was more suited for grumbling when a little boy brought a toad into the house or dug a mud pit in the back garden.

I considered my answer a moment. Lissy was hardly the average girl. In one moment she wanted to play the perfect little mother and imitated me in the kitchen, then she was more than willing to challenge Alex to building the best fortress out of rocks, mud, and twigs.

"I'm not sure," I said at last. "But he will come to supper and you may ask him yourself."

"Good," she said with quite an assertive tone. "Do you want to know what else Alex said?"

"Of course I do," I replied, amused by her words. She and Alex did a great deal of talking. There was no telling what else he had said.

"Alex said his father likes you more than most people. Do you want to know why?"

Her words made me stammer as there was any number of ideas that could have come from Alex, many of which I was certain Erik didn't want voiced by his son.

"Alex says his father likes you because you give him all sorts of sweets that Madame Giry forbids him to eat," she said before I could answer. "Madame said you indulge his sweet tooth more often than he deserves."

"Then you and Monsieur Kire already have something in common," I teased.

She giggled and rested her head beside mine. "May I stay with you?" she asked.

"For as long as you wish," I answered.

"Mother?" she said suddenly. I opened my eyes and found her staring at me. "Do you think Monsieur Kire will one day be healed?" she asked. "Alex said he was hurt very badly."

I doubted Alex knew how horribly his father had been wounded, not just by the beating he'd taken in an alley but over the course of a lifetime.

Erik had managed to survive rather than lived his life. He wasn't as alone as he imagined, but he was not a man whose mind or ways were easily changed.

I knew the feeling of being helpless, of being caught in a nightmare and having no one to turn to or trust. My broken past wouldn't heal him, but at least I understood his struggles to an extent. From what I had learned from Meg, he had withstood unspeakable cruelty—which he passed off as an inconvenience.

He would need to learn to trust others in his own time, though I understood he had been betrayed or abandoned more times than most people could endure. No one could force trust upon him, but time and again I would offer him my sincerity.

"I think Monsieur Kire has many people in his life that will help him heal," I answered.

Eyes closed, she fell asleep beside me. I kissed her forehead, took a deep breath, and slept until the post arrived with a heavy knock at the door and an unexpected letter.


End file.
